


Rest for the Wicked

by Korpuskat



Series: Rest for the Wicked [1]
Category: Halloween (2018), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Attempted Murder, Background Character Death, Biting, Blood and Gore, Caretaking, Cum Marking, DFAB but gender neutral reader, Dom Michael, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Groping, Innocence Kink (kind of), Kind of? It's gonna be a while but michael gets horny in ch1, Marking, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Michael gets handsy, Michael gets his knife AND his dick wet, Michael is very innapropriate, Minor Character Death, Multiple Orgasms, On the Run, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Possessive Michael, Post-Halloween (2018), Reader Insert, Reunion Sex, Sick Michael, Slow Burn, Somnophilia, Underwear Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Virgin Reader, Watersports, does this count as..., dubcon, michael earns his red wings, semi-public teasing, so much biting, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 68,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Korpuskat/pseuds/Korpuskat
Summary: In early November, you find a strange, severely wounded man out in the forest. Refusing to go to the hospital, you have to take care of him yourself- too bad he's a serial killer.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader
Series: Rest for the Wicked [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601731
Comments: 251
Kudos: 909





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harlequince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harlequince/gifts).



> Heyo, this was my NaNoWriMo project! The first draft clocked in at 60k, so you're in for the long haul.
> 
> Fair warning, this fic features some unsavory themes because, of course, it's Michael Myers. Mild dubcon (tbh its consensual but you have mixed feelings for various reasons through the fic), controlling and violent behavior. None of this is addressed in a critical manner and Michael has little to no growth in terms of not being a menace to society. Also he kills people. It's Michael Myers, y'all.
> 
> Its? About as much of a slow burn as I can write, so recurrent sexual scenes but no payoff until the end ;p

There’s a body in the leaves.

You want to believe so badly it’s a cluster of rocks you haven’t seen before, some sort of animal carcass left untouched. But no, with one arm stretched out, fingers dirty and half-curled, there was a human body before you.

“Holy shit,” You curse under your breath. It couldn’t be. There’s no way. This was such a good area, quiet miles of empty forest and private acreage owned by the quiet old man up the road. This wasn’t the haunted residential streets of the city- you were out in the country to avoid this!

You pull your boot knife from its holder, a simple little thing you carried just in case. You scan the woods. The mix of orange and purple leaves nearly covering the strange corpse stands stark against the evergreens scattered through the area. 

You step towards the shape amongst the leaves. A man, you’re fairly sure, face-down in the leaves with some sort of latex mask. Fuck, had he been out here since Halloween? You inch closer, only a few feet from him now. If he’d been out here a few days already, he’d have started to smell, right? And the scavengers would’ve taken parts... but aside from the strange brown and black stains that mottled his outfit, he looked… intact. 

God, those must be _bloodstains!_ and worse, his sleeves have scorch marks across the cuffs. This wasn’t some unfortunately timed natural cause- this man was _murdered!_

What if they were still out here? You’re still as a deer under the scope, waiting for something to pull the trigger. Your heart slams against your ribcage. You can’t see anyone else- you don’t imagine any of the tree trunks are thick enough to truly hide anyone, either. No, there’s nothing, no one out here. The whistling wind reminds you that you’re alone, except for the body in the leaves.

Calm down. Maybe he had some ID? You could at least take it back with you to your house and hope to get some reception, if you’re lucky, and you could tell the police immediately. You reach for his back pocket, fingers just snagging against the singed blue jumpsuit- the corpse flinches. Your ass hit the ground, crunching fresh leaves as you stumble back with a stifled cry. Breath, wet and labored, wheezes out of the mask, still face-down in the leaf litter. 

Well, that changes things. 

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. The single bar of service connects twenty feet from your porch. Your arms feel like dead weight as you drop the pull to your sled. It took twenty minutes of fighting gravity and the man’s unconscious form just to get him onto your little firewood sled, another hour to lug him back to your porch. _Finally,_ you could call an ambulance and get this guy in better hands. You pulled your phone out of your pocket--

Something tugs at your pants legs, you glance down. You bury your disgust at the sight; the three remaining digits of his left hand- you don’t look too closely as the shattered remains of the other fingers- grasps at the fabric, pale and bloodied and filthy and _burned_ against the denim. Holy shit, how was he _awake?_ His fingers twist as your thumb hovers over that first 9.

“Hey, hey,” You try to shush him, but hardly dare move in case you injure him more- you’d barely been able to flip him onto his back and madhandle him half onto your sled, only discovering more bloodstains and scorched skin and fabric. First aid told you not to move people, but if you’d left him out there he would’ve died long before the paramedics could find him that deep in the trees. “I’m calling you an ambulance, it’s okay!”

He yanks with his three-fingered grasp- nearly toppling you over. Even as injured as he is, he’s _strong_. His other arm flails, reaching uselessly towards you- clearly uncontrolled, flapping against his stained uniform for whatever he was trying to communicate.

“Hey!” You drop your phone to the ground, alert to his growing agitation. You need to calm him, he’d hurt himself if you don’t stop him. Crouching beside him, you catch his seemingly less injured hand in yours- his massive palm consuming yours with ease. His fingertips are cool, and you ignore the dried blood that flakes as you rub your thumb against his skin. He squeezes weakly and you hope it’s not as hard as he can. He tries to move again, the motion stiff and wrong, uncontrolled. Did he think his attacker was still out there? “It’s okay, shh, you’re safe now.”

The masked figure quiets, but keeps his injured hand twisted into your pants. You figure that’s good enough and grab your phone-- only to have him start up again. For all the aggressive panting behind his latex, you slowly lower your phone. “Do you… do you not want me to call an ambulance?”

The mask doesn’t move, the flat white face of his mask gives no hint to his feelings, but his blindly reaching fingers still at the proposition. ”Okay,” You start, feeling out how you can make this work, “I’ll get you inside first, then we’ll talk.” His grasp loosens on your jeans and finally falls away. If it was from agreement or blood loss you aren’t sure as his breathing slows soon after. You can’t even tell if his eyes are closed behind the latex.

Fuck. If he died, would you be responsible? 

Both the man’s arms drop entirely, thudding heavily on the ground. Unconsciousness, it seems. You sigh. Would it be wrong to call now? You bite your lip. He seemed so intent on stopping you. 

At least you could get him out of the cold and see what you can do for his injuries. Once more you fold his arms over his abdomen and pick up the cord to your sled. You hope his dragging legs didn’t bother him too much.

The steps to your porch were a problem. Even lifting him by the shoulders, it took several minutes going back and forth between his upper body and his legs to get him up the three short steps and onto your porch. 

From there, you dragged him by his arms into the house. You waited for a moment. You’d be getting blood all over the pristine cabin. Stupid! This was an emergency! You’re careful to lift his head over the threshold and you work him just enough inside the entryway to close the door. You’ll have to tuck the plastic firewood sled away again later.

Now that this massive man was in the house- still out cold- and safe from whatever had happened to him, what should you do? The first red-brown stain appears from the man’s fingers, clearly having lost a scab in his grabbing at you. Right. First aid.

You rush to the bathroom and grab the little red kit from under your bathroom sink. When you return to the living room… he’s still there. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s been seriously injured, and apparently has passed out again. _please,_ you beg whatever is listening, _please, don’t be dead._

Now, you had to gauge his injuries- see what you could even do for him. From the first aid bag, you snap blue gloves over your hands. With a slow inhale to brace yourself, you return to kneeling beside him. From here you can smell the heavy scent of iron and copper, the metallic tang of blood clinging to the air. You take two handfuls of latex, the white face distorting as you pull it off in awkward tugs- each inch revealing more of his pale, scarred face. 

He’s… older. Wrinkles frame his face, mostly around the curve of his eyebrows without any laugh lines. You hadn’t expected that- his strength was still considerable and from having to drag him around, he certainly felt… firm. It only makes your blood boil at whoever did this to him.

A long, thin scar curves over his left eye, which has more wrinkles than the right, and gray stubble that covers his chin and cheeks and neck scratches at your hands. But more immediately-- his short-cropped gray hair is rough with dried blood. 

Carefully, you take his chin in your hands to tip his head to the side and look closer. The bloody mess doesn’t tell you much, other than it’s already dried and, perhaps, you can see the edge of a scab on his scalp across the left side of his head. With his head tipped to the side, a ripped wound across his right cheek weeps fresh blood onto the hardwood. You turn his head back to look at the reopened wound- the silver hair on his right cheek dyed a bright crimson red.

The scab on his scalp is more concerning. A head injury? That didn’t bode well. It would explain how anyone got the drop on him. Even being older, he seemed to be fairly fit and definitely tall. Even strong, from his grasp on your earlier being any indication. A blow to his head early in a fight would do a lot for his attackers.

...and maybe that’s why he was grabbing at you? Not because he didn’t want you to call, but because his brains were so fucking scrambled he had no idea what he was doing. Fuck. You’re so fucked.

You rationalize it away, telling yourself that it would take so long for an ambulance to arrive anyway. You could help him now. You begin to unzip his coveralls. You flush; he’s completely nude underneath. It feels like an invasion of privacy for a moment- before you have to peel the fabric away from his body, separating slowly from a dark, messy scab over his shoulder. He’s too injured to wait for decency. You had to continue, tucking the fabric around his waist, where it seems he was less injured.

But the more you see, the less you like-- his body was hardly human anymore; dried blood and massive purple bruises camouflaged every inch of his abdomen, front and back. He was missing two fingers off his left hand- the wrist bloodied and scratched. His right arm had several stab wounds- on to the same shoulder as the odd scabbing (realizing there was a deep slice only two inches from the other wound nearly had you in tears), another thin, bloody wound across his ribs, nearly invisible under the bruises. 

And beyond it all- he was somehow _burned._ His hands and forearms taking most of the damage, but a thin ring around his neck shows where the latex began to heat up and melt against his skin. 

Disgust overwhelms you. How could someone do this? He’s a human being, a real _person_! You press your hand over your mouth and step away- focus on getting a bowl of water from the kitchen and some spare hand towels instead of the nausea and burning wetness at the corners of your eyes.

The bowl fills slowly in the sink, you blink away tears. Why would someone do this? Damage this severe, it had to be intentional. You don’t know nearly enough about how to care for wounds this serious, what were you going to do? You’re fairly sure he was adamant about not calling an ambulance. The faucet squeaks as you turn it off and head back to the entryway.

It takes everything not to drop the bowl- his gnarled and ruined left hand curls into the white latex- now spotted with blood. “Wait, wait!” 

Water sloshes onto the floor as you rush to set it down beside him. This time he doesn’t even try to move his right arm, instead fumbling with the mask with his left hand. You wrap your hand around his wrist and try for a gentle deterrent. Your fingers aren’t even close to meeting your thumb for as big he is. “Hey, hey-” 

He looks at you. You freeze, hands trembling against him. His gaze locks you in place; one eye is a startling blue-gray, the other is milky and scarred, a soft blue ring of what was iris, lined with that thin scar over his cheek. There’s an edge to his gaze, piercing deep inside, an unspoken threat. Your mouth is arid, but you lick your lips and try to center yourself. “Wait, Let me clean your wounds, then you can put it back. Okay? Please?”

His eyes don’t move, so intense you fear he’ll burn straight through you. But he stops trying to twist the mask around, his arm rigid under your fingers. From the floor, his chin lifts as he tilts his head, not breaking eye contact. You can’t make out what he’s thinking, his face doesn’t change at all through the exchange. But, finally, he lowers his arm.

A sigh slips over your lips, “Thank you.” You swallow and finally look away from his piercing eyes. 

“Could you… turn this way?” You motion for him, wanting to start with that gash on his head. He doesn’t move, still staring at you. “Um, here,” You reach forward- it’s so much weirder with him awake- and touch his relatively undamaged cheek, still mottled in blue-purples from some impact, and gently urging him to rotate his head. He complies, though you can still feel his gaze on you. 

You dip a cloth into the water, then lean over him, dabbing at the wound. As you remove the dirt and dried blood from his hair, the line of the scab is revealed, thick and curved. You trace the edge with a fingertip- it looked like the edge of a _pan._ You catch yourself as you touch it again, but if your prodding had hurt the man, he made no noise or motion to stop you. 

So you rinse the rag and moved down to wipe across his face. He closes his eyes without you having to prompt him, so you work quickly. The left side of his face is uninjured, but as you wipe down the stubble over his neck, you find a small, circular scar where hair does not grow. You realize it’s _old_ as you touch it. But that’s not what’s important, you right yourself before guiding him to turn away from you. 

The wound on his right cheek is bright red, reopened and leaking fresh blood over his face. You clean his beard before softly warning him, “This might hurt.” Just as before, he makes no move, no sound, as you clean the strange gash-hole in his cheek. Your brow knits; you don’t know how to close this one. Your hands shake as you move through your first aid kit, finding a tube of skin glue. It would have to do. 

“Sorry,” You say again, as you pull the sides of his cheek taut, and squeeze a few drops of glue onto his skin. You press the wound together now, counting in your head to give it time to cure and make sure it would dry in place. As you let go, you’re quite pleased that his cheek is closed again, even if the skin glue has kept a patch of beard bent out of shape.

He grabs you- the gory mess of his hand curls around your forearm. You yelp and struggle to meet his eyes. He doesn’t need to speak to convey his impatience, the hard edge even more obvious. “I’m almost done,” You barely whisper, “There’s a burn on your neck.” 

Your blood runs cold; gray eyebrows tighten for only a moment, his bottomless eyes narrowing-- and releases your wrist again. You nod, despite him having said nothing. 

From the first aid kit, you retrieve a burn salve. It’s a mint green color and is cool and soothing on your fingers. Does he notice how your hand shakes as you smooth the cream over the inflamed ring around his throat?

You finish, not bothering to make him lift his head to get the nape of his neck. He wastes no time in reaching for the mask again, this time his right arm twitching at his side again, lifting more coherently than before, but not making it much further than his chest. “You want it on?” You ask, already helping to spread the back flaps of latex and slide it over his face. He tugs the edge, pulling it down into place.

You can’t make out anything about his face anymore. The mask is of someone’s face, but the details are lost in the age of the latex. And this thing is old, cracked and wrinkled, strange inhuman lines connect the eyes and nose where it had been improperly stored. With the mask on, his breathing is louder- with the air forced out either the tiny nose holes or down through the neck, it whistles and echoes in the rubber.

Fuck. Maybe this guy’s brains really were scrambled. But with the latex on his head, he seems to relax; his breathing turns slow and deep. At least you had… comforted him? He really was unreadable- even before the mask.

You sit awkwardly for a moment- did he want you to tend to the rest of his wounds? It’s so much weirder knowing he’s awake- even if he’s hidden behind a mask. You bite your lip, hesitate over what to do- the soft creaking of rubber tells you he’s turned his head again. The eyeholes of the mask are dark, completely obscuring his gaze- yet you know the power is still hidden inside. 

If he wanted you to stop, he would’ve stopped you. That’s what you tell yourself at least as you lift his left hand and dare to look closer. Nausea passes over you; his whole hand is covered in the rust of dried blood, but the stump of his pinkie has a soft, fresh trickle running over his knuckles. 

The water in your bowl has turned pink, but you patiently wash his hand, attentive and careful to not disturb the remaining thick scabs over the stumps themselves. Each inch you clean reveals more burns and scarred skin and odd callouses. You definitely did not have anything to cover the huge wounds of the stumps themselves- you mourned that you did not see the missing fingers in the field. Though, you’d definitely have to take him to the hospital if there was to be any chance of reattachment. At least a rummage through your first aid kit produces extra large bandages which wrapped awkwardly over his fingers, but at least gave you the illusion that you were helping. 

“Should really go to the hospital…” You venture again, as you slide around him to work on his right arm. Aside from the slow turn of his head to follow you, he says nothing. A concerning thought occurs to you: _could he talk?_ He could move well enough- except his right arm, it seemed- so why did he not speak? Was it that head wound? You bite your lip, hope that if there was something severely wrong he’d find some way to signal that. 

The shoulder wound is a scabbed over, rough, and in an irregular shape, the intact skin raised and shredded away from the otherwise smooth plane of his shoulder. You frown and touch the unmarred skin. It was such an odd shape, what could’ve caused it? A weight settles in your stomach. 

“Can you sit up?” The mask stares at you, just barely listing off to the side. “Here, I can help.” If you managed to drag him into the house, you can lift him, so you start to slide one hand under his unhurt shoulder-

His stomach flexes and with hardly any pressure on his hands, he lifts himself up. 

It occurs to you just how tall he is. Even with you kneeling, he’s already taller than you- your chin having to lift to try to meet his hidden eyes. It’s not just fear that makes you avert your eyes, but it’s what you tell yourself. You focus on the back of his shoulder- and it’s just as you’d worried. A perfectly circular dark brown stain interrupted the soft skin. You bite at your lip and trace the scab with a finger. This was a bullet wound. He’d been shot. 

Shot and hit and burned and had two fingers blown clean off. You blink back tears as you dig up two gauze pads and press one to each side of the bullet wound. You really should’ve called that ambulance. 

A cursory glance and quick scrub over the rest of his back- all the way down to the curve of his rear that had you blushing and looking to the ceiling- revealed only extensive bruising. Nothing that broke skin, at least. 

Instead, you move on to his arm. When you first touch his bicep, the man tenses- you look up to his mask again, flitting between the dark holes in a weak attempt to divine what he needed. He must see something, the latex folding around his neck as he tips his head at you, before he relaxes his arm again. Whatever he had tensed for and whatever he saw that made him cooperate again was lost. You really wish he’d talk.

Wiping the dried blood away from his bicep revealed the long, thin line of what had to be a knife wound. You can add stabbed to the list of horrible things done to him. There was little you could do except to wrap it, cutting off the end of a long bandage and sticking it together. 

You moved down to his hand, a shallower knife wound across the inside of his wrist and onto this thumb was all that marred this one. The breathing behind his mask- made louder by having to force the air through the tiny holes for his nose- quickened as you held his hand, turning it over as you cleaned him. It was an odd wound to cover; a pad might be twisted off on his wrist, but a wrap would limit the use of his hand- the only real hand he had left. 

You touch the wound again, feel the soft thudding of his pulse in his wrist, and decide on the wrap, half around the wrist and then half around his thumb. It might feel awkward for him, but at least you’d feel better knowing it was as covered as it could be. 

With that, all that remained was his chest. Most of it was obscured in dried blood and beneath that, colorful bruising, but if there were any other wounds left unattended you needed to know. “You can lay down again…” 

The man doesn’t move any more than the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. The mask stares aimlessly past you. Fuck, you really did manage to get a brain damaged man into more trouble. Or- 

You squint at him. He’d sat up before, without any help from you. He’d seemed intelligent enough to agree to let you mend his face before putting the mask back on, sat up when you asked him to, even if he was nonverbal. Was he… fucking with you? Or did he really want something from you? 

You stand, your knees aching from kneeling so long, and hobble the short distance to the living room to grab a throw pillow from your couch. With the big doorway you can still see the strange man sitting on the floor- and you can see that he’s turned to follow you with his eyes. You don’t bother taking off your gloves, considering he’s about to bloody the pillow that much more. 

“Here,” You show him the now stained pillow, “Please lay back? I’m almost done.” 

He sits there for a long moment and you worry he’ll refuse and touch his chest will be that much more awkward- but he relents. He lowers himself back down, and you meet him with the pillow.

This time, he does not follow you with his gaze; instead he stares straight up at your ceiling, seemingly unaware as you wet your rag once more and start just below his clavicles. The hair on his chest is sparse, thin and gray, and you’re careful not to pull on it too hard as you try to wipe away the dried blood. Under the blood, his skin is a vibrant mosaic of purples and blues, easing into greens along his sides. 

His nipples harden as you wipe them, the cool water and cooler air drawing them tight as they’re cleaned of blood. Under your hand, you can feel each inhale and exhale, strong and firm, despite all he’s been through. You move down, cleaning away all sorts of grime- and worry for what these bruises meant. If any of this was internal, he’d die without proper care. 

But he’d already been laying out there in the forest for who knows how long- Halloween was _days_ ago now. If any of his wounds were inherently fatal, you’d been talking to cops and he’d be on his way to a morgue. 

Or maybe he was just that damn stubborn. 

You cleaned off his stomach, and through the layer of softness fit for his age, you could feel the firmness of his musculature, the same hidden strength that let him sit upright despite all the blood he’s lost and damage he’s taken. He twitches softly as you clean his sides. You can’t help but smile, he’s a little ticklish.

There, you notice something odd. You thumb at a patch of scar tissue, a tight, perfect circle of pale, taut skin. You traced over it, then noticed another, barely discernible under the heavy bruising across his torso. And another, just below his right pectoral- you wiped one side of his ribs down again and saw another. Each one perfectly round. Bullet scars? What sort of life did this man live that he had been shot so many times- and so long ago to have such neat, clean scars? 

Just below his navel, the hair thickened in a salt-and-pepper mix. You are lost in the quiet noises of the rag dragging across skin, the water lapping at the bowl and dripping as you wrung it out. You wipe at his hips, right up against where you’d left his jumpsuit. And as you cleaned- 

Your hand stills, eyes dropping suddenly back down to the skin of his hip. Your hand shook and heat washed over your face. He wasn’t _that_ old, it seemed- the loose, rough fabric of his coveralls tented, a definite shape pressed along his right thigh. 

He’s looking at you again, his head lifted to meet your eyes, watching in the dark cover of the mask- waiting to see when you would notice. His gaze pins you, makes your chest tighten and your breath come quick and short. Something traitorous inside you strains against every social instinct you’ve ever learned.

You shove it down. You pick up the bowl and manage to make it to the kitchen with only minor spills, the trembling in your hands uncontrollable as you pour the bloodied water into the sink and rinse it away until steam rises from your sink. 

Count your breaths; the inhale, hold deep in your chest, and the slow exhale as you calm yourself. You scrub at the towel under the hot water, pouring soap over the ragged cloth and focus on the tactile sensation, even if muted by the gloves. 

The gloves.

You look at your hands. There’s a bloodstain on your forearm where he’d grabbed you, one more reminder that he was real. Real and seriously injured and in desperate need of real medical attention and in absolutely _no_ condition for him to want to fuck you. 

The latex peels off your hands neatly, a few stray blood spots are washed off under the warm water, and you almost look normal again. Outside, though the window over the sink, the sky has begun to change to the pink-orange of sunset. Almost normal again. Fatigue crept up on you, settling into the joints of your hands, crawling up to your shoulders. You’d dragged for so long even before the emotional strain and whatever the fuck just happened.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you needed to talk him into letting you take him to the hospital or _at least_ call a doctor. If nothing else you would have to try to get some medical advice on the internet. It had to be better than nothing. And tomorrow maybe he’ll speak to you, instead of whatever he’s doing.

You leave the rag and bowl in the sink, just another task for future you to deal with. In the living room you can’t even be that surprised; the mysterious man has managed to stand up. If he could sit upright while sporting that many bruises and stabs and everything else, standing wasn’t too far off. 

Your eyes lock through the dark eyeholes while he stands, then you watch as he slowly zips up the front of his coveralls, hiding away all the purple skin you’d cleaned and bandaged. 

You stand there, watching as his arms fall neutrally back to his sides. He’s even taller than you’d thought when he’d sat up, easily towering over you and dominating the room. 

“I have a spare bedroom,” You say before you process the words. “You need to rest.” 

You don’t bother waiting for a reply this time, instead leading him through the cabin and presenting him with the smaller second bedroom that was still furnished with old nineties decor as you had inherited it. You hope the bed is long enough for him. Soft footsteps behind you tell you he followed you, and you step aside so he can enter the room. The mask twists on his shoulders as he looks around, seemingly puzzled by the room or his situation as a whole. He turns, looking back to you in the doorway. 

“Do you need anything?” You know he won’t answer, but you can’t help but ask. He was out cold only a few hours ago, face down in a pile of leaves and left for dead. He tilts his head, and you take it as a no. “Okay, well, if you’re hungry, help yourself to the fridge. If you need anything I’m right across the hall.” You motion over your shoulder to your door. “You alright?”

The mask straightens out again and for the first time- you cock your head, feel your brows furrow tightly. You’re nearly sure it had been a trick of the light, something to do with the sunset- but you think the mask dipped forward just a hair into a nod. A half smile curled over your lips, a mix of amusement and… trust? Satisfaction? mixed in with it.

You leave the door cracked as you move to your room. The thought occurs to you to lock your door-- you had a stranger in your house! You don’t even know his name or what had happened to him, but you’d invited him to stay the night. What kind of fool were you, letting a stranger in so close? 

And yet, as your fingers hover over the little lock, you can’t bring yourself to turn it. 

You scold yourself and change into your sleep clothes, barely making it to brushing your teeth before you’re yawning. The adrenaline was wearing off, the stress of finding a fucking body in the woods and caring for him and his apparent hard-on for you- it’s all too much to handle.

You crawl under the covers, bask in the warmth. For a moment you stop and listen to the hallway- Would he leave now? Or before you woke up? It would be better if he did? You didn’t need this sort of stress in your life, but you know you’ll do nothing but worry about him if he does disappear. You hope he doesn’t. Locking eyes with him was thrilling, there was _something_ to him, something different than most people-

You hope you’re not the curious cat. 

You yawn again and settle deeper under the covers.

You’ll find out soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s dangerous._ The thought whispers in the back of your skull. You smother it. _Overreacting. He’s scared. He didn’t hurt you._ You couldn’t have brought someone dangerous into your house. You’re smarter than that. You glance to him, and find him sitting down on your couch again, watching the TV. Please, fuck, be smarter than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: more nudity and sexual themes, very mild masturbation, more woundcare, Michael is intrusive/controlling/almost violent

The morning is cool, even for November. You wake to your blankets pulled high around your neck; your warmth trapped under the sheets. Sleep has wiped clean the tension in your shoulders, but had left something else behind.

Your dreams were vague, foggy recollections that faded the more you pursued them. But you recall enough: piercing blue-gray eyes and the white, unreadable mask. It left your heart racing, but it was no nightmare.

Had it really been so long since you’d received any sort of attention that your subconscious had latched onto the first person to... get aroused around you? The memory warmed you, left a tightness between your legs. It felt wrong to think of him like that- he’d trusted you to care for his injuries after he’d been _attacked._ Besides, you don’t even know him...

But some part of him liked you, or at least liked the attention you gave him.

You lick your lips and blink drowsily to your clock. It has only just passed seven— injuries like those should keep him down for a while. He could take care of himself for a few more minutes. It wouldn’t take long, not even your shame could deter you now. Your strange dreams already have you primed, your underwear damp as you slip under the hem. You close your eyes and imagine.

He was so _fit,_ strong enough to survive all this- would he be rough? Or would he prefer gentle expertise? The pads of your fingers slip through your wetness, just barely starting to dip between with the thought of those piercing eyes. He could stare you down while he touched you. You open your eyes.

Your door is open. Muffled breathing fills your room. He’s here. The scream that escapes from your mouth is short lived; you pull your hand free so fast the elastic waistband snaps sharply against your waist and you cover your face with both hands. 

You curse loudly against your palms. Had he seen? You had a lot of blankets on... you peak through your fingers. He doesn’t move, hasn’t moved, since you realized he was standing at the foot of your bed, staring down at you through the empty eyes of his mask. His coveralls are too loose, you can’t quite tell if he’d had any sort of reaction. You clear your throat, dare to meet the eyes of the mask. “You scared the fuck out of me. How long have you been there?”

That gets him to tilt his head, the slow turning that you hoped was curiosity or amusement. It’s so endearing you almost forgive the absolute intrusion. You had invited him to get you if he needed anything.

“What is it? Did you need something?” You look to his hands- the padding over the stumps of his fingers had darkened in the night, but the hand with the knife wound seemed alright. He says nothing, as was becoming the usual, and leaves you wondering. You look over the rest of him, but find no new bloodstains on his already filthy coveralls. You grimace; those _can’t_ be good for healing.

You don’t have any other clothes that would fit his exceptional frame. 

“I’m gonna brush my teeth and get dressed if you don’t need anything right now.” The mask turns to follow you as you slide across your bed and towards the master bath. The way he looks at you… It’s slow, intentional- makes the prey instinct in your head go haywire.

You ready your tooth brush and only feel a little guilty you don’t have a spare for him. Footsteps. You look up, into the mirror and find the white mask hovering behind you, towering in the doorway to the bathroom. The chill that runs down your spine is unwarranted, you tell yourself. He’s creepy, that’s all. Not even that- he’s traumatized! He can't even speak, he was probably just hungry or scared or lonely!

And you’re the one who wanted to jerk off to him, pervert.

Fuck.

You lean over to spit and rinse- and watch in the mirror as his chin dips down, the empty black holes of his eyes following down the long line of your spine, settling at the pajama-covered curve of your rear.

You stand quickly, ignoring the warmth both in your cheeks and that rekindling between your legs. _He’s injured._ you repeat to yourself and dab your face with a towel. _He’s injured and lonely, that’s all. Don’t make this weird._

You turn, 

And see his huge body is still blocking the doorway. Pointedly not looking at his waist, you meet his mask. “Excuse me,” 

He does not excuse you, does not even give you the courtesy of a head tilt or any other sign of acknowledgement. His breathing echoes in the tiled bathroom as you wait. You frown and again doubt if the man actually knew what was going on. 

You try for bargaining, “I can make breakfast, but I need to get by you.” 

He still does not respond. It’s unnerving, his silence. He’s different than just quiet people, than introverts or shy people. It’s... intentional, pointed. Measured. The mask accentuating his breathing does not help, bringing the volume up as though it alone was his voice. You struggle to keep your nerves in check.

“I need you to step back.” You say again, and this time to step toward him, you neck arching painfully back to hold his invisible gaze. When he still refuses to move, you reach out- and boldly place your hands on his ribs. You’re gentle, remembering the horrible purples and blues from before, but you push against him, urging him to back up.

There’s a catch in his breath, and with hardly any pressure from your hands, he steps away. 

“Thank you.” It’s barely enough room for you to slip by, but you manage to with only minimal brushing against his ragged coveralls. You try not to pay attention to what you do feel behind the fabric.

Since he doesn’t seem to want to leave you be, you decide not to change; your pajamas are warm anyway. Bootsteps behind you tell you he follows you out into the hallways and then into the kitchen. The bloody bowl and rag are still in the sink, isolated spots having oxidized and browned. You’d really have to wash that towel. 

“Is there anything you want in particular?” You don’t bother looking to him, it wouldn’t be helpful with the mask on. Instead you open the fridge and look through what remained since your last grocery run. There’s not much. “I know you need protein to heal faster after surgery, so I was thinking eggs?”

Breathing. You were really starting to stop expecting a response. You look over the edge of the fridge door. He stands in the entryway, body deceptively neutral. He stares at you, does not look around your kitchen. “If you don’t like something, you’ll have to tell me. All you have to do is nod.” You seek his eyes in the darkness of his mask and hope he feels talkative today. “Do you like scrambled eggs?”

Nothing. You start to sigh- before the latex along his neck creaks, and very slowly his chin dips in a single nod. Your smile is disgustingly fast to spread, but you think you keep most of it hidden behind the door. “Thank you.”

He lingers as you gather items to cook; watching your hands so intently as you break an egg into a skillet, you wonder why. Maybe he just likes to be near people? He’s a people-watcher? Or he’s making sure you won’t poison him? He’d already given you a nod today, which is as much as you got from him yesterday. You didn’t want to push him too far and-

You startle and look to him. He’d looked away at some point, staring out the window over your sink, but he snaps back to you so fast the mask shifts on his face, a sudden stiffness to his shoulders. You look him over, his injured body obscured by the bloody coveralls. His hands are still bandaged and dirty. “You shouldn’t be up!” You frown sharply, waving him towards the living room. He tilts his head. “You’re injured! Go, sit down!”

Your eyes flit between your masked guest, apparently intent on standing there and making you look like a fool and the quickly fluffing eggs. You wave your free hand at him again, shooing him away while you stirred and, to your amazement, you heard one floorboard creak. Your smile returns, as much as you wish to shove it down- but shouldn’t you be happy? It seemed you were at least building trust with the stranger in your home. 

And as the last of the eggs begins to firm up, you slide them out onto two plates and stick forks in them. You pour a glass of water from the tap for both your drinks- if he was so unconcerned with his healing that he would stand and watch you rather than rest, the least you could do was try to lead him in the right direction. 

Carefully balancing both plates and cups, you make your way out to the living room- and sigh. He is not sitting as you had hoped, but instead is staring through your half-pulled blinds out into the yard. Suddenly, your brow knits; was he looking out for his attackers? Did he know where he was? You set one plate down onto the coffee table in the center of the room, the ceramic of one plate clicking against the metal of the fork. 

You open your mouth to ask if everything is alright- but he’s already turning. You concerns shortened to a startled, “Oh,” as he approaches. He does not _walk._ Long legs make him cross the room in hardly any time, each muscle moving with a focused purpose to stop right in front of you. You neck hurts, something pinching as you look up; the empty holes of his mask burn into you and he reaches forward-

The cold fear shoots over your skin and nearly has your plate shaking out of your hands, just in control enough to take two steps backwards. You blink away tears- though you can’t name exactly why they had appeared- and he reaches forward. 

You feel stupid.

He takes the plate in your hands. His big hands dwarf your little flatware, the plate uneasy in his three-fingered left hand. Nearly collapsing into a chair, your appetite has faded in your adrenaline rush. Instead you’re hyperaware of his every more. The mask tilts as he looks to the plate, turns the metal fork in his hand- did he not like them? He stands for a long moment, just staring at the plate before-

You almost want to laugh for how odd it is, how definitely of place he looks- his knees bend mechanically and he lowers himself to your couch. He’s so tall his lap is angled backwards, but he lets the plate slide and sit against his abdomen as he reaches up and- with as much surety as he could have- rolls up the bottom of the mask. Once more you see the gray stubble across his neck and chin, the angry red line of where the latex had melted onto him, and finally his hidden, pink mouth. From this side you can see the strange wound on his cheek that you’d mended with skin glue. Blood still rushes in your ears, you watch as he fumbles with the fork- so tiny in his hand.

His teeth click against the metal- you wince, but after a few bites he seems to get the hang of it. His arm control is better today, no longer flopping and twitching so uselessly, but it trembles the longer he eats. If he kept ignoring what his body needed, it would go right back to being so severely injured. The thought crosses your mind of feeding him; he’d been almost perfectly compliant yesterday, would he be so helpful if you tried it?

You don’t have time to consider. He eats like he hasn’t in days-- it occurs to you, he probably hasn’t. If he was out there since Halloween, he would’ve been without food or clean water for nearly a week Despite his awkwardness with utensils, he piles the eggs on heavy and shovels them down, his tongue occasionally peeking out to catch what he’d missed. 

You manage to eat a few bites, your stomach still tense from… whatever that was. A background part of your brain reminded you that you’d be hungry later if you didn’t eat now, so despite you lack of desire, you manage about a third of your plate down. The man, however, has moved onto the glass of water. He drinks with a thirst you can’t comprehend- and you can’t understand why he didn’t get water for himself in the night or before deciding to stand at the foot of your bed. But his Adam's apple bobs frantically, droplets gathering at the corners of his mouth as he tips the glass further and further back. The drops turn to streams as it pours over his chin, zigzagging through his stubble and down his throat, hiding somewhere behind the collar to his jumpsuit. It’s animalistic, absolutely primal.

You mouth is dry; you realize you’ve left it open. You politely look away and gather yourself-- just in time to hear him finish his glass, leaving him panting to catch his breath. _He’s injured_ you repeat. _He nearly died, this is all unintentional._

You look back to him, and find him staring at you- as much as you can assume, anyway, with the unreadable mask. You offer him your plate, but can’t find the words to say so; you’re too afraid of what noise would come out. His hand twitches at his thigh. He takes the plate and eats with the same fervor as before. 

You stand and pick up his glass. He pauses in his eating, the mask lifting to look from his (your) plate to you, so you just point at the kitchen. He makes no sign to acknowledge you, just goes back to the quickly diminishing remains of his (your) breakfast. You barely make it back to the kitchen, scared and uncomfortable and so, so, unwantedly yearning for something more than the absolutely fucked up situation you were in. 

_You still don’t even know his name._

You refill his glass and take several drinks for yourself, again having to calm yourself before returning to your new housemate. The bloody bowl mocks you in the sink. You’d touched him, he’d let you. Fuck. You take another drink, press the cold cup to your forehead, and wish it wasn’t so early in the morning. 

With a full glass, you return to him. He takes it with the same measured, powerful movements- not too hard as to spill the water, but faster than a casual exchange. He drinks it, and this time you watch the pink, soft edge of his tongue press against the rim of the glass. This was not happening.

You drink from your glass this time and search for the remote to your TV. He doesn’t seem to notice compared to his need for water. 

The TV flashes on and a reporter’s voice cuts in mid-sentence. You hear the latex creak as he turns to look at the TV, set across the room from him on a stand, then to you. 

“You should slow down on eating,” you say, stupidly proud of how even your voice sounds. “Don’t want you to be sick.”

He seems to accept this quicker than anything else you’ve said. He gives you no head tilt or other sign of rejection. Not that it matters now, he’s already demolished both plates of eggs- but at least he doesn’t raid your fridge to find something else. You move on, “I get cable, but the connection is pretty poor out here. Or I could put on something on Netflix? Do you care?”

His attention moves back to the screen, his intense interest redirected onto a brown-haired woman sitting at the anchor’s desk. Apparently this station was fine enough for him. It’s a local channel; you feel like you should know her name as she pleads, “If you have information, please contact the state police. The suspect is considered armed and dangerous, call 9-1-1 if approached. The phone number for the state police…”

His attention is rapt, entirely locked in on a dreary news report. Was it his attackers they had just covered? They don’t repeat what story it was, only the number for the police. You bite your lip again. You really needed to tell someone about him. This was so much more than you could handle alone.

You get your phone from where you’d left it on the floor yesterday and moved through your apps to the internet. Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard before you type into Google _’How to care for gunshot wounds’_ and click through several links. Each one made you more nervous than the last, talking about all the things you hadn’t done when patching him up. You needed to check for infection. Should’ve looked closer at his shredded wounds. Should’ve just called the damn hospital, really. 

A talk show follows the news segment, and he seems content enough to watch another set of women discussing something. Magical benefits of kale, today. You don’t think he eats much kale.

 _Get the victim to the hospital as soon as possible_ one site reads. But that’s a fresh bullet wound, right? His was already old enough to have stopped bleeding and be covered. Did that make a difference? 

You’re such a fool. You were killing this man with lack of care. 

You stand up, but lose sight of whatever plan you had. His head turns slowly from the television to look up at you. For once, you’re taller than him. Should you call the hospital anyway? Or just let him stay here? He _could_ call emergency services on his own, or be demanding you do it for him. He’d _stopped_ you from doing so before, but… You fidget with your phone still in your hands.

“I should really take you to the hospital.” Your thumb hesitates over the phone icon, wanting so badly to just be able to dial it. Wanting more for his blessing. “You’re really injured, they can do more for you than my first aid kit can.” 

He stands upright, his height filling your room once more. A heavy presence surrounds him, makes you wither under his gaze. He looks down at you with that same piercing purpose- and though you cannot see his eyes, you realizing something. About the way he moves, how intensely he focuses, the confidence of each motion; he’s a craftsman. He sees something, knows he can change it into something else, he knows how. Like a carpenter with a lathe, only you’re his new work.

You stumble back, “Please, please, let me call?” Your voice feels small and far away, the warmth of tears returning just from the pressure of his gaze. “You’re hurt really bad, please,”

He pursues, two of your fumbled steps made one swift motion for him- and you keep fumbling away until your back meets the wall outside your kitchen. Back in the entryway where you’d tended him yesterday. He continues on, steps so close to you he blocks out all light behind him; his chest covers your line of vision. You have to tilt your head so far back to meet the eyeless mask that your neck hurts, the length exposed-

And one warm, rough hand curls around it. You feel where the bandage around his thumb is coming loose. The pad of his thumb presses against your pulse.

True fear shoots down your spine, each limb trembling as you touch his forearm- still careful to avoid the knife wound along his wrist. 

He doesn’t tighten his grip, his fingers- all five simply resting just under your jaw, keeping your chin lifted. His adjusts his grip until his thumb and forefinger meet at the nape of your neck, completing the ring of warmth and danger. You swallow, feel the tiny bones of your neck move against his palm. 

It’s barely more than a whisper. It’s hard to move your jaw much with his hand pressed so close below. “Okay.” His head tilts, watching as you blink rapidly, lick your lips. You try to stay focused and not get lost under a wave of fear and- “Okay, I won’t.”

His hand relaxes, sliding down your throat halfway, until his ring and pinky fingers rest over your clavicles. “But let me check your wounds again.” He stills; his thumb twitches in what you fear is restraint. Against your will, one hot tear slips over your cheek. And as he holds you there, his left hand raises and touches the wetness as it beads at your chin. The mask slides the other way as he tips his head, looks at his now wet fingers. 

He lingers, takes his time considering something inscrutable. Each rapid breath passes under his hands, your eyes still locked with the darkness as you wait. 

He steps away, hands falling back to his sides. He gives you the same staccato nod, barely more than a dip of his chin. You wipe your cheek with your sleeve, then your eyes before more traitorous tears can fall. The man turns and goes back to the living room, unconcerned with your anxious weeping. With trembling hands you find your first aid kit again- still left on the floor by the front door- and count through your bandages, just to make sure you had enough to replace them all. 

_He’s dangerous._ The thought whispers in the back of your skull. You smother it. _Overreacting. He’s scared. He didn’t hurt you._ You couldn’t have brought someone dangerous into your house. You’re smarter than that. You glance to him, and find him sitting down on your couch again, watching the TV. Please, fuck, be smarter than that. 

You set the kit down on the coffee table and look towards his zipper. He didn’t lower it. His mask isn’t off either. You hesitate. He’d nodded before, he was just… being obtuse again. You reach for the edge of his mask instead-

You gasp; his hand catches your wrist. It’s the same firm grip he had the last time you’d cleaned his head wounds. Not painful, but demanding- he lowers your hand to the zipper at his throat. Guess you wouldn’t be checking on his cheek any more today. 

You steady yourself as much as you can, and take the cold metal between your fingers. You shake so hard the handle clicks against the zipper itself. You place a hand on his shoulder- careful to avoid the wounds there- and slowly lower the zipper, revealing the same scarred, bruised chest as before.

The mask’s eyes do not leave your face even as you push the sleeves off his shoulders. The patches you put over the gunshot wound are slightly discolored at the center, and with careful fingers you pull away the bandage. It’s only brown with blood, which from your meager internet searching, was the best possible color to have. The wound itself is still ugly and misshapen on the front. You carefully urge him to lean forward so you can reach his back- and find that bandage clean.

He’s cooperative, or as cooperative as he’s ever been. He lets you lift his arms as you inspect the wounds, sits quietly as you peel away each shoddy bandage, makes no comment or motion even as you undo the wrappings around the stumps of his two fingers- even as your stomach flips at the gory remains. They aren’t pretty and the scars will be extensive, but if he’s not dead by now, he might just be okay.

You reach for your first aid kit- and an idea comes to mind. You reach for your phone again- the man’s gaze follows your hands as you type into Google again. You can _feel_ the narrowing of his eyes. “I read,” You voice shakes, so you swallow, exhale slowly as you try again. “That you should keep wounds like these clean, and I don’t think your outfit is helping them.” You look to the grimy, blue-gray coveralls. Through the mask he does not look impressed. You double check the web page. “And, according to the internet, you should be able to shower. I think that would help a lot.” 

His head tilts, one clump of synthetic hair falling away from the bunch to dangle freely. 

“I can wash your coveralls pretty fast since it would just be them. And your socks, I guess.” You thumb at the edge of your phone. You can’t hold his gaze, flitting between the empty eye holes, his dark, scabbed wounds, and the splotched purples of his torso. A peculiar line of dark bruises has fully formed over his abdomen- long and horizontal. You wonder what caused it.

He doesn’t move for a minute, you think he’ll just ignore you and go back to watching the ladies talking-- onto something about energy saving tips now. But, instead, his head turns and he looks to his feet. He undoes the ties to his boots and peels off his socks. You’re almost ecstatic. You get up to grab your laundry hamper from your room, not wanting to touch the bloody clothes longer than you had to. Since it was already half full, you end up dumping your dirty clothes onto your bed to be washed later and take the hamper to the living room out with you.

He’s already nude except for his mask. He stands in the living room, stepped out of his coveralls. He makes no attempt to cover himself, absolutely shameless. You gasp and drop the hamper, your eyes looking too fast for your brain to stop. You pinch your eyes closed but despite all the heavy bruising, all the wounds you could’ve looked at instead, the image of his cock lingers behind your eyelids.

At least he’s only half-hard this time.

“Um,” Your mind stumbles over what to say. You look anywhere but at him and scoot the hamper out of the way. “H-here,” You motion for him to follow, focusing hard on your floor. 

His footsteps are so quiet you don’t hear him behind you- having to take quick glances at the floor behind you to make sure his feet are still there. You lead him back through your bedroom and to your bathroom. The master bath had a better showerhead and water pressure than the one out there, and at least he was a little further away- maybe you’d have more time to prepare when he inevitably wandered out of the bathroom, wet and naked.

You point at the knobs to your shower, motioning as you go, “Turn it this way for hot water, and this way for cold. It can take a minute to warm up and it can be loud, the pipes are old. Um. Soaps are over here.” You step back, and he obediently steps into the bathroom. His arms hang plainly at his sides, still not even bothering to cover his body-- you restrain yourself from peeking, despite the tingling in your belly.

The breathing through his mask is harder; you don’t have to look to know he’s probably thickened. “Uh, don’t scrub at any of your wounds, especially the one on your cheek, it can unstick the glue. Point is to rinse, not reopen anything. I can, uh, rebandage you when you’re done.” 

The mask turns slowly away from you and towards the shower. You’re out and closing the door behind him before he can make this any more weird. 

Separated by only some prefab door, you lean against the wall outside your bathroom and hold your face in your hands. Your cheeks burn, and the warmth has returned between your legs. Was this something that just happened to old men? Getting hard at weird, inopportune times? Seemed like the opposite of what you knew- this was like he was a teenage boy, getting hard at the slightest attention. And he wasn’t ashamed of it either- he’d waited for you to come back and see. 

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes and watch the phosphenes dance behind your eyelids. You breathe slowly. The water turns on and, after a moment, the shower turns on. He had waited for you. 

You were so wrong, so absolutely fucked. You shouldn’t be calling an ambulance, you should be calling the fucking _police._ You push yourself back up and drag yourself out of the room. You can at least go wash his clothes. 

In the living room, you carefully pick up his uniform- avoiding the worst of the bloodstains- and drop it into the hamper. You’ll have to clean your floor. Something occurs to you, something that brings that same cold fear rushing back through your veins. You pick up the coveralls again, turn them and look close. There’s holes aligned with his injuries, a frayed hole over his shoulder, slashes on his arms, each soaked and stiff with oxidized blood, the fabric on his chest and back was thinned. The cuffs were both soaked in the rusty stains- _from his wrist and hand injuries,_ you tell yourself. 

But you can’t explain the blood soaked into the chest, the _spatter_ across the ankles, and one long, flat, stroke across a forearm. It’s defined. It has a _point_ to it. You know that kind of stain. You’d cooked enough; it’s what happens when you wipe off a knife. 

Possibilities roll in your head. They wiped the knife off on him after they attacked him. Maybe someone else was attacked too. It’s a Halloween costume, maybe some of it’s fake. A really, really good fake. Maybe the suit isn’t even his. 

Maybe you should really call the police. 

An unnameable, swirling emotion drives you; you drop the coveralls back into the hamper and quietly collect his socks and even the rag you’d used to clean him from the sink. You cross the house, ignore the pounding water coming from your room, and dump the hamper into your washing machine. You feel about as hollow as the drum within. You use too much detergent, but you don’t want to bleach his clothing or bother stain fighting when they’d already set in so hard. The dial turns under your fingers, the machine lighting up and dinging as you start it. 

You lean over it, feel it begin to turn and weight the clothes, your mind empty and buzzing all at once, static in your ears. Who was this man? He hadn’t hurt you, not _really_ \- he’d only been physical when you encroached on _his_ boundaries-- of course, those boundaries included him having to reveal any sort of personal information. Involved mandatory police reports.

But you felt… it’s not safe. Something else. Something… soft. He hadn’t hurt you. He was creepy and weird and extremely inappropriate and you were so, so lonely and he was… handsome. In a strange, off-putting way. It was hard to differentiate between his mask and his face; the piercing blue-gray fading in your memory already. But his presence in your home was becoming somehow comforting; you weren’t alone out here after all.

And yet, that makes you so much more afraid: you aren’t alone out here.

You return to the kitchen and bleach the bowl you’d used to bathe him, then collect your dishes from earlier. You scrub them, focus on the soothing repetitive motions and the sound of water running. That’s all you have right now, the comfort of simple movements and sounds and the soothing noise of the TV from the living room, an ad for a local barbeque place playing.

When you’re done, you towel off the dishes and put them in the cabinets again, then you sit quietly in your chair in front of the television There’s a stranger showering in your bathroom. You can hear the water from here, added to the static in the back of your head. You can hear him moving through it, the shape of the spray shifting, the sound changing with it. 

You hoped- hah, despite all the terrors that now lurked in your mind, what a fool you are- that he’s not agitating his wounds too much. Could he wash his hair? With his fingers damaged and the other shoulder having a _hole_ in it… The idea of washing his short hair passes through your mind. 

You couldn’t have stayed. It would’ve been too much. You don’t know what would’ve happened, but the thought alone of soaping up his hair is making your heart beat too fast, your mind just a little foggier. He would probably close his eyes and relax against you. 

You get lost in whatever is on TV; you can’t even follow what’s happening, but you stare at the screen. After a while your washing machine dings. It shakes you from your complacency and you go to check on his clothes. They’re clean, mostly- some of the staining is too deep-set to remove now, but at least they’re no longer stiff and grimy from laying in the leaves for a few days. 

You drop them into the dryer and start it, taking note of the time. You startle- had you given him a towel? Fuck. There aren’t any hanging in the bathroom. You grab a spare towel from the laundry room- a dark one, just in case he’s bloodied himself again- and go back to your bedroom.

Steam fogs the room, but you’re quite happy he’s enjoying your hot water. How long had it been since he’d showered? You cross the room- and your foot finds a cold, wet patch on the carpet. You recoil and look closer- and find a short set of footprints between your bathroom door and the corner of your bed, a small puddle soaked into the carpet around your bed. Like he’d been standing there for a moment before returning.

You look at your bed; there doesn’t seem to be anything out of place. It’s still messy from this morning and you’ve got your dirty clothes dropped onto it since you had the hamper out there to collect his bloodied clothes. Your brow furrows. What was he out here for? Did he forget something? Had he been looking for a towel? You frown- but can’t find any meaningful answer. Just one more weird thing he’s done. 

You knock on the door twice to get his attention, the sound of the shower changes. You speak loudly over the roar of the water. “I’m leaving a towel for you outside the door!” 

There’s no answer from behind the door, so you return to the living room once more. The wetness of your carpet lingers in your head, but you can’t think of anything. Maybe he’d stepped out to get your attention for something, but then changed his mind? You shake it from your thoughts. There’s so much weirder stuff going on, the unexplained bloodstains on his coveralls, why he had walked partially into your room was of little importance comparatively. 

You stomach grumbles. You’d barely eaten earlier- and a quick glance through the window confirmed it was already edging into the early afternoon. It would be dark soon. You’ll have to remember to make more food next time. A sandwich should be easy enough on both your stomachs. But first you have to redress and rebandage your guest. What if his wounds had reopened?

The image of his ruined fingers surged to your mind. 

A sandwich might be too much. 

The water shuts off in your bathroom, the staticy noise ceases, overtaken entirely by the TV. A fake judicial show’s theme plays and you get your phone. The last page- _how to care for a gunshot wound_ \- is still open, a white and gray text page telling you all the things you had done wrong. You hesitate, before closing the tab, your fingers tapping along the sides of your phone as you contemplate what to do. 

You do not think of him toweling off, do not think about his pink lips and silver stubble, and how if he’d used any soap at all he might actually smell _pleasant_ and not like rotting death itself. 

There was a stranger in your house. He’s terrifying and weird and wants you and you should’ve called for help a long time ago. 

Your dryer startles you, a little melody playing to alert you that his clothes are done. The judge bangs her gavel and yells at someone. You head back down the hallway, the judge’s rant lost on you. His clothes are warm as you pull them out and really get a look. The coveralls are in terrible shape over all; ripped and torn and threadbare, the blood has faded into odd, dark, but unidentifiable stains. Your thumb lingers over one of the slashes in the left arm, feeling the frayed ends of threads brushing the pad of your finger. Someone did that to him.

Maybe later you could patch them up for him. Would he like that? Does he even care? 

You gather his coveralls and fish out both socks, leaving the rag for later. 

If he liked you so much- hopefully for something other than _exclusively_ sex- maybe he’d appreciate you mending his clothes. Hefting the clothes over onto one arm, you open the door to your bedroom.

He’s standing in front of your dresser, inspecting the various items you have there. Facing away from you, the towel is bunched in one hand at his hip, fully exposing his ass. It’s pale with strong dips on each side with a surprising and pleasing curve to it. And yet- his mask is back on already, the flaps separating softly over the nape of his neck. He turns away from a picture of your family to look at you, the towel sliding just so, so that finally, _finally_ he covers himself. 

You already know what it looks like. The memory returns unbidden. 

“Here,” You offer his clothes back without looking at him, which he takes. He holds them for a long moment, before dropping the towel unceremoniously onto your carpet. You stare carefully at his feet he begins to pull on the jumpsuit. 

As he zips up, you take the moment to reassess his wounds. His shoulder stab and gunshot both looked good, his fingers were not bleeding obviously, no blood spilling from under the mask- you’d really hoped he’d let you get a look at his cheek again, though. The zipper stops at his navel, the top half hanging around his waist like a skirt. It’s strange, his bare, shirtless chest- the bruises all lit up and dark, his numerous scars bright with unblemished pink skin- against the white matte of the mask.

You do not linger to look at him more than medically necessary. 

He follows you back to the living room, where you’d left the first aid kit. Once more he is compliant- he takes his seat on the couch and he watches as the show cycles to another episode of the judge whoever, tipping his head as the theme plays. This time, you consult the internet before placing each bandage, taking the time to carefully center each one and smooth the edges down. 

You do not let your fingers wander on his clean skin. 

You brow knits sharply as you get to the knife wound along his right wrist, finding half the scabbing over his thumb gone with fresh, scarlet blood beading. It’s your fault, you should’ve bathed him. Another fresh wrap seals that wound away. The bruising over his chest is darker after his shower, spreading across his shoulders and down his arms, sharp lines of impact across his forearms and hands, vying for attention with the inflamed burns. The line that runs horizontally across his abdomen is more defined now. You squint at it- and gasp. It looks… like the grill of a car. 

You can’t stop yourself before your fingers trace along one long line of bruising. You just wish you knew what had happened to him. 

You find your tub of burn cream in the red bag and scoop some onto your fingers. “Tell me if this hurts.” The mask turns to look at you as you raise his already bandaged right hand and, diligently avoiding the fresh bandages, you rub the cream onto his hands. He doesn’t move, despite how much burns can hurt. He sits there, perfectly still, as you rub the cream onto his skin, making sure to coat each finger. 

The left hand is still a mess, but as you had surmised earlier, the thick scabbing remained in place during his shower. This time, you cut a gauze pad into a circular shape- and then cut halfway through it. You pressed it over the top of the stump and taped down the edges, making the bandaging less intrusive. You do the same for his missing pinky, before picking up the burn salve again.

He watches, rapt, as you rub it into his skin, so delicate with how you hold his hands, avoiding the darkest bruises and the worst of the burns. You take your time to apply the salve over one long burn along his forearm that had already blistered and peeled. You linger to observe your work, turning his hand to make sure you’d covered all of it. You’re doing it before you can stop yourself- your lips press against an untouched part of his wrist. It lasts only a second, and you retreat before you can make more of a fool of yourself.

Clearing your throat, you move on. With his torso done, you begin to put away your supplies.

His hand catches yours- slipping a quarter inch on your skin due to the slick cream on his palm. You think he’s upset again- the twist of dread already settling in your stomach, but his movements are the same demanding yet measured, not _angry_ as he brings your hand up to the edge of his mask. Your fingertip touches the burned skin there, he drags it along.

“You want me to put the burn cream on this?” 

You hand is released; he nods. Your hand trembles, bringing the cool, minty off-white cream to his neck. It nearly matches the mask in color, and you lift the very bottom edge to be able to see the burn clearly. You smooth it over the front of his throat, pausing to feel the assertive force of his pulse. You work outwards, reaching around him blindly, following the burn by touch alone-

He shifts, the mask turning towards you. The light reflects off one blue-gray eye, his pupil blown wide under the latex. You still, the breath catches in your throat. He sees through you, passing through every part of you, searching for something. His head tilts off to the side in curiosity, and the light is gone. You know it’s still in there, in the darkness- that piercing, unearthly gaze that demands more of you than you have to give. 

You’re trembling all over, but you work the cream into his neck. It only takes you a few tries to get the lid to the burn cream back on. 

You leave the living room without a word; he’s pulled them all out of you, left you with nothing on your tongue. You make sandwiches on autopilot, forming your favorite without asking what the masked stranger liked. Not that you had much to offer; tomorrow you needed to go into town and get more medical supplies and groceries.

His mask is already rolled up when you return, facing you as you leave the kitchen. Had he smelled you making food? It’s not like you really cooked anything.

It doesn’t matter. You keep your eyes on his hands, on his mouth as you give him his plate. Once more your appetite is quashed under the roiling adrenaline and fear- but you know you’ll be famished if you don't eat.

A crime drama starts, you figure that’s good enough. You watch, try to immerse yourself in the plot and characters and stuff down as much of your food as you can. So long as you can ignore the hungry gaze burning into you. 

Your eyes get heavy soon after dark. You yawn, and give in- no use staying up late. “I’m going to bed.” You tell your stranger. He had stopped trying to eat you with his eyes after the evening news. “Get me if you need anything.”

You don’t watch his mask follow you down the hallway; you feel it.

In your room again, you stretch, your muscles tight from the continuous anxiety gifted to you by your guest. You go to brush your teeth. Along the way you grab the used towel and bring it with you. The bathmat is still damp, puddly outlines of his feet pressed upon them. It’s kind of cute. You hang the towel up over your shower- and notice something odd.

Had you... left something hanging before he showered? No... You stare at the scrap of fabric and know exactly what it is. The wet footsteps make sense now; he’d taken it from your bed, must’ve been in with your dirty laundry.

You cover your mouth with one hand, warm tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. It’s soaking wet from his shower. You lift it, water dripping off- but not everything leaves; there’s a peculiar shine along the hem. 

Yesterday’s underwear soaking in the shower. 

You peel them open. It’s pearlescent inside. Thinned in the water, but still clinging to the seat, it’s unmistakable. They drop to the shower with a wet _splat_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's actually two things Michael does in this chapter that I can't explain without making Reader omnipotent, so I'm curious if anyone? maybe? has unanswered questions about his behavior in this chapter? Or if it people thought it was just Michael Being Weird 🤔


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were circling the drain; sooner or later you’d fall in, but for now the dance you had around each other was… new. Unique. Something so different than the normal dreary aspects of life, the closest you’ve come to romance. You just had to wait until he was well enough, until you could reconcile the fact you wanted someone who wouldn’t speak to you, who had blood on his clothes that was surely not _exclusively_ his own. A wry smile curls at your lips. You don’t even know who he is, don’t even know his _name._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhh think I forgot to outright say Reader is an innocent Virgin before this so uhhhhhhh yeah. Sorry if that's not your thing lol.
> 
> Check end notes for content warnings!

You open your eyes already tired, bouts of wakefulness left you with broken sleep and the acute knowledge you were not alone. Even in the absolute dark, you felt him. You blink and rub your eyes, try to bring some alertness back to yourself before you sit up.

He sits in a chair at the corner of your room, the white latex illuminated in the low morning light that slips between your blinds. He watches as you rise; there’s no intensity to his mask this time, no hard line to his shoulders. You meet where his eyes should be, too tired to discern why he’s in your room this morning. 

Should be obvious; he came in your underwear. 

He’s watching you sleep. 

That should be so much more concerning than it is, but in a way… You can’t help but like him. It’s nice to get attention, even if it’s so very different than what you had wanted. He’s demanding sometimes, and scary- but he wanted you. And as much as you want to ignore it, want so desperately to focus on the fact that he’s been so horrible injured- you want him, too. You’d dreamed of a real relationship one day, the kind with dinner dates and flowers, but you can’t really complain about whatever it is that’s happening between you and your stranger.

You were circling the drain; sooner or later you’d fall in, but for now the dance you had around each other was… new. Unique. Something so different than the normal dreary aspects of life, the closest you’ve come to romance. You just had to wait until he was well enough, until you could reconcile the fact you wanted someone who wouldn’t speak to you, who had blood on his clothes that was surely not _exclusively_ his own. A wry smile curls at your lips. You don’t even know who he is, don’t even know his _name._

You stretch your back, willing your muscles to wake and ready themselves for whatever else he’d do to you today. The mask lifts as you move and you imagine in the darkness he traces your shape with his eyes. "Good morning," You rasps and swallow compulsively. Must've slept with your mouth open. 

Just as with yesterday, he follows you to your bathroom and watches you brush your teeth, but as far as you could tell he remains focused on your face. He even steps aside as you move to leave. Not enough, of course, forcing you to fit between his body and the door frame, but at least you didn’t have to guide him into moving out of the way. You don't hear his footsteps behind you through the hallway, but you trust he's here anyway.

“Breakfast, then I’ll check your bandages again?” You ask, turning to glance behind you. He actually doesn’t crowd into your kitchen this time, seemingly okay with just lingering in the hallway, only half visible. He doesn’t nod, but he certainly didn’t mind telling you when something displeased him, so you figure that’s okay.

You poke through your fridge, displeased at the remaining edible foodstuff. “We’re low on eggs, but I could make toast with it?” Some produce catches your eye. “Oh, I know. Breakfast might be a little small, but I can get groceries and we can make a soup for tonight. Got some potatoes and onion left here, could add corn? Would just need to grab some meat.” You peer over the top of the fridge door. You are unsurprised that he has not moved, still standing statuesque in the shadows of your hallway. You try to meet his eyes, silently ask him to answer: “I could make it without, too. Do you prefer meat?” 

He nods. The corners of your eyes crinkle as you smile. Again, you pull out the eggs and a skillet. You press your luck. “Do you like coffee?”

He doesn’t move this time. Oh well. You crack your eggs and leave them to start cooking while scooping grounds into your coffee maker. You’d make an extra cup for him, just in case. Soon enough the smell of fresh brewed coffee filters through your home. The eggs- only _really_ enough for one plate this time, follow soon after. Buttering bread and throwing it in the toaster is the final touch. You stick two pieces of toast on each plate and split the eggs between you. 

He still waits in the hallway, having either forgotten or ignored your plea for him to sit down yesterday, so you fill a cup of water for him and hand him both the plate and the cup. “Go sit down, turn the TV on if you want.” 

He stands there a moment as you turn and begin fixing your cup of coffee, balancing the bitter taste with how awake you want to be. This time, the floorboard does not creak. You only know that he leaves and enters the living room because the prickling feeling of being watched fades from between your shoulder blades. He does not turn on the TV, but he does sit in the same spot on the couch. You enter the living room just in time to see him rolling up the latex again. 

He’s a little more controlled with his hunger this time- and a little more deft with his fork. You turn on the TV again, still early enough to catch the weather. You sip your coffee and watch as the local weatherman- a young man that’s gone gray much too early- talks about the chilly breezes coming through and the long, dark nights. He makes some off-color joke about not having someone to spend those nights with. 

Crunching draws you back to your guest, already done with his eggs and moving on to the toast. You hoped it was close enough to how he liked it. Not that he'd tell you. Despite the calming of his hunger, he still drinks as if parched- and to your amazement, when his glass empties, he stands, goes to the kitchen, and with the sound of running water, he actually fills his own glass.

You aren’t quite sure what to make of it. Was he getting more comfortable with you and your house? It’d be nice- maybe he could relax more. Talk to you, maybe. He stays in the kitchen for a minute- you eat in peace for the first time in two days. The water runs again, but he does not return quite yet. You watch as the anchors speak distantly, caught up the glittering of the woman's necklace. From the corner of your eye, you see the man reappears in the entryway to the living room, but does not return to his seat.

You twist to look at him directly. There’s still little wet spots over the neck and chest of his coveralls, but his mask has already been pulled down, his hands empty. He stops in the doorway and just stands there, watching. Sometimes you, sometimes the TV. You sneak glances at him between bites, only letting your eyes loiter when you’re sure he’s fixated on the screen.

You finish your breakfast and take a while to just sip your coffee. It’s actually kind of normal. Drinking coffee on the brisk November morning, watching boring news reports, trying to budget your limited funds in your head. A stranger looming in the shadows. You almost do laugh: at this point, one of those might actually be scarier than the other. 

You take another long sip before tabling your remaining half-full coffee and wave him over, “Bandage time.”

He is silent as resumes his place in the cushions- even turns slightly towards you. His chest rises and falls in steady pace, and once more, he does not undo his zipper for you. That’s fine. Behind his mask, he watches as you pull the zipper down with increasing confidence. 

His bruises are lightening slowly; what the shower had darkened has faded, and slowly the purples along his pecs have faded, ceding the first vestiges of his natural skin tone back to the greens and yellows of lighter bruising. He heals fast for an old man. The mottled colors highlight the pale white of the round scars over his abdomen. You struggle not to touch them. 

You check his hands first. The gauze over his stumps is clean, so you tape it back down. The knife wound along his right wrist had reopened during his shower, but now is clean and scabbed nicely. The slash higher on his arm is also clean, but you take your time smoothing the bandage down, feeling the shape of his arm. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

You peel off the front gauze pad to his gunshot. It’s stained a yellow-pink across the bottom, a shiny, hard crust ringing the lower edge of the scab. Concern draws you mouth tight; you’d read a little about drainage in severe wounds. “I have to check this one more often.” You say more to yourself than him and touch his shoulder. You wish you could knit his skin yourself, to rub your thumb over the puckered hole and have it disappear entirely. “I think your others are closing nicely.”

You change the bandage easily; the man’s lack of pain reaction still astounds you. He doesn’t even flinch when you touch too close to the wound itself. With the new gauze pad taped into place, you’re done. It's much faster when you aren't having to clean him and not being disgusted by the gore.

“Alright, that’s it. You’re free.” You lean back and begin to stand to throw out his dirtied bandage. His hand wraps around your left wrist- tugs you back towards him. His breath whistles through the holes in his mask, a peculiar tightness to his grasp. You meet his eye line, searching the darkness for meaning. 

Your voice is delicate, “What is it?” 

He leans forward- the remaining fingers of his left hand grabbing a small bottle from your medkit. You set his dirty bandage aside and take the bottle with your free hand. It’s the burn salve. Worry pangs you, “Do your burns hurt?” You should’ve looked up more about them.

He’s still except for the movement of his chest. You expected a nod at least, he’d been practically talkative today! But he says nothing, betrays nothing at all. Perhaps he didn’t want to admit his injuries pained him? Or maybe it had just felt better with the salve. “It’s okay, I’ll put it on.”

His hand loosens, then slowly lets go, turning to offer you his palm. You unscrew the lid and look inside; it’s only about half full now, but that should last you long enough to cover his hands and neck again. You’ll have to get more when you’re out later.

You rub the cream into his skin, trying to gauge if you could tell if his burns were healing. The skin seemed less red and inflamed and the new skin is shiny and taut, but you couldn’t be sure how much it had changed since you first cleaned him up. You turn his hand over and rub the cream onto his knuckles. His index finger twitches, rubbing against your wrist, the nail scratching lightly.

You switch hands. The long, peeled burn on his forearm did look better, a little less aggressive than it had before. A lightness fills your chest at the sight; he _is_ healing. Slowly, but surely- despite your total lack of medical expertise, he was on the mend. To be sure, you liberally coat it with more cream and spread it to cover every edge until a pastel mint color covers the entire wound.

You look up as you finish, finding the same pale mask staring you down. His hand lingers on yours, not breaking the soft contact between you, but you motion to his neck. “That too?”

The shifting of his head is so slight, you think you might’ve imagined it. But he’s confident enough to tell you when he doesn’t want something, so you scoot closer and move up to smear cream just above his clavicles. He must’ve nodded, because he doesn’t stop you. Instead he tips his head back, lifting the mask’s latex flaps so you can reach the burn easier. 

The memory of yesterday makes you shiver and try to catch a glimpse of the eyes hidden beneath the mask. The foggy blue is gone now, the shadows obscuring his face. You follow the full circumference of his neck, even getting him to lean forward so you can get it on the nape of his neck. But it’s done quickly for how small and regular the red skin is, and after checking your work, you move away to put your kit back together.

The feeling of his hand on your wrist is becoming disturbingly commonplace. Again, his touch is slick on your wrist with the cream covering his fingertips. You look up to him. His grasp spasms; pulling too tight- pain lancing through your arm for a fraction of a second, before loosening, lingering on your skin. You wince, your eyes flit over the mask, searching for what it is he wants you to do. You tilt your head at him, raise on eyebrow. You’d checked all the wounds you’d bandaged- rubbed cream on his hand _and_ neck. Did something else hurt him? Had you forgotten a wound?

He withdraws from you, the warmth of his hand pressed deep in your skin. His hands raise- and touch the edges of his mask, then every so slowly, he begins to peel it up and away. The same stubble you saw while eating returns, silvery gray and ever so slightly longer than when you’d found him. His lips are drawn in tight. When the mask rolls over the tip of his nose, he reaches up and grabs the mask by its brown hair and pulls it off.

He lays the latex in his lap, his gaze glued to it- and all you can see is the strong profile of his nose and jaw, the long lines of wrinkles of his aged face gathered around his eyes, yet somehow clear of laugh lines. You can see it without the blood and rage that had obscured his features; he must’ve been attractive when he was young. Young and before his eyes was damaged- not that you didn’t find a rugged handsomeness about the mismatched irises. There’s a strange innocence about his countenance- if he’d only smile he’d look angelic. But his eyes are sharp and piercing rather than soft and loving, yet with his pink lips, and well-shaped face, you can imagine the women fawning over him.

Without the last two digits of his left hand you hadn't even thought to look for a ring. You flush and look away. 

What you need to focus on now is the glued skin of his cheek. That’s the only reason you can imagine he’d take his mask off for you. It’s the first time he’s done so- the only other time you saw his real face was when _you_ had demasked him. The significance is not lost on you and you take care not to overwhelm him.

His budding trust in mind, you lick your lips and so delicately touch his jaw. You take it slow, giving him time to stop you if it’s too much. His stubble is prickly on your palms, but feels nice when you smooth it down with your thumb. The glue over his cheek is messy- specked with dirt and debris, but still in place. You guess he listened to you when you asked him not to scrub it. But you don’t know how to assess a wound that had skin glue on it, considering by nature it was sealed up tight. At best you would have to look at the inside of his mouth and you don’t think he’d be keen on _literally_ opening up.

As long as it’s not still bleeding, you’ll take it as a good sign. The scar will be something nasty, though. The wound was rough and uneven when you’d last seen it open, and with your unskilled closing, that wouldn’t help. Not that he had much to lose; he already had a prominent facial scar. Your mouth is dry as you speak, “This one looks good, I think.” 

You back off, try to assess how you'd reach the other head wound. “Could you, lean forward? I want to check the top of your head.” 

His head turns slowly, and finally: the cold chill that runs down your spine is familiar, comfortable, terrifying; your eyes lock with his. He’s more guarded today- or perhaps you’re getting used to his hypnotic, electric gaze. You can breathe, your chest not lost to his will; a few moments hold is all it takes for you to be able to blink and look away. He does not move more. So, he won’t be cooperating entirely. You can still work with that.

You resettle on the couch, moving to kneel on the cushions and using the back to straighten yourself up enough to see the top of his head. You worry that he’ll try to follow you with his eyes again which would entirely spoil your ability to reach the wound you hadn’t been able to check in a long while. But he doesn’t. He’s unnaturally still except for the rhythmic sounds of his breathing, the soft lifting and dropping of his chest and shoulders. He doesn’t even blink. 

Again, you find his cheek- reaching around to touch his already scarred cheek, and oh so gently guide him to turn fully towards you and drop his chin. You feel the muscle in his jaw tighten, his eyes narrowing, but he complies. It’s still not a great angle, he’s so tall and the wound is more behind him than anything. You try to straighten up a bit- at least so you can see around the edges-

Your knee slips between the cushions. You waver- You grab his shoulder to stop yourself from falling on him-

And one warm hand with only three fingers catches you at your ribs. The unexpected touch makes your breath stutter. You peer down at him, blink rapidly, feel your pulse against his palm, but his eyes are level, gazing somewhere far off. He’s under your shirt. That alone makes you shiver, feel the imprint of his fingers on your skin.

You don’t know how he was fast enough to slip up under the hem as you wobbled. Had he been waiting for it? Was it somehow an accident? You swallow thickly but can’t find it in yourself to say anything. His hand is warm, his touch is strange with only three fingers. With the extra support you can nearly see the whole wound, you move your hand from his shoulder to his cheek again-

His other hand finds you. He holds at your hip, just above the hem of your pants and under the hem of your now slightly raised shirt, but does nothing else. His breathing is still steady, low and consistent in contrast to your stuttering, shallow gasps. _It’s nothing._ You tell yourself, _You nearly fell on him. It’s for balance._ It's a lie and you know it, can't even accept your own placations. One hand might be an accident, but not both. Not both warm and squeezing softly into your skin, feeling your shape- 

You bite your lip. You need to check the one last wound and then you'd be done. With one hand keeping balance on his shoulder that doesn't have a bullet wound, you reach with your other hand and touch around the edge of the scab. He hadn’t minded it before, and if it gets you out of his hands before you’re actually on his lap, it’s fine. The edges of the scab are irregular and bumpy, the clotting forming extra thickly, trapping a few short hairs in the clump of dark cells. But it feels okay- none of the crust you found on his shoulder or even active dampness of blood or drainage. He's regained control of his arm and aside from his muteness, he doesn't seem to have brain damage.

You start to move back, just a hair away-

His hands jerk once, then start to slide across your skin. The one at your hip slips over your back, his hand long enough to feel the line of your spine- then both move up, up- resting just before your curve of your chest. You shake, wanting to pull away and stop before it gets too far- and yet captivated by the feel of his fingers on your skin. He's nearly burning to the touch- the sensation new and strange and _wonderful_ and more than that, you're taken by the wonder of what he’d do to you. 

You don’t have to wonder long. His hands turn, finding your breasts in his palms. It’s odd how his touch is asymmetrical, three long fingers to five. He just holds them- long enough for you to question what he’s doing just sitting there, if this was even sexual for him. So calm while he’s unmaking you with hardly more than a touch. If it weren’t for your hold on his shoulder, you’d have collapsed into his hands, onto his chest. What would he have done then?

The pressure on your breasts tightens- he closes his fingers, squeezing; first gently, like he’s unsure of what he can do- then turning rougher, faster. He gains confidence at lightning speed, leaving you dizzy and confused. You press into his palms, the new feeling of being groped too good to ignore. His fingers pull at your skin, drawing from sternum to nipple, one calloused thumb catching sideways it by accident. You gasp, jolt in his hands-

He notices. 

His touch is experimental, but firm: both thumbs center on your nipples now, feeling over their shape, swiping across in all directions, pressing and flicking-- you bite your lip, close your eyes to keep from crying out. You've never been so glad you _can't_ see his face at this angle- if he were to see you now you might simply burn away. You find the back of his neck with your free hand- you want to pull him close, to give in, to give him whatever it is he wants from you despite every alarm you’ve ever had ringing at the mere sight of him. 

His head shifts under you, his short hair moving over the back of your hand as he tips his head up- 

For a moment, there’s teeth on your throat. He doesn’t get to close his jaw.

You gasp, and finally push away from him, falling back onto one side of the couch. You chest heaves and the sound of your panting breaths fill your ears; the memory of his touch tingles on your breasts. Through your pajamas, your nipples are hard, stiffened under his exploration. He moves- you sit upright, slide backwards until you're nearly crawling up the arm of the couch- but he only turns away from you, fingers already curled into the white latex. He pulls the mask back over his face, as if nothing had happened. With the jumpsuit curled around his waist, you can't even tell if he's hard.

Your legs wobble as you stand, but you make it all the way to your bedroom without stumbling.

You lock the door this time.

You didn’t want him to stop, it occurs to you. You don’t know anything about him and you hate yourself for wanting him anyway. You need to calm down.

The bathroom tile is freezing, but it’s refreshing. A solid connection to the real world outside of the all-absorbing nature of his gaze, his touch. You turn on the cold tap full blast, cupping your hands under the spray and pressing them to your face. Heat still lingers in your cheeks and in the mirror you can see teeth marks where you’d bit on your lip to keep quiet. There’s nothing on your neck- it’d been too brief.

You wished there were marks.

You spray your face cold again, rest your forehead on the faucet. You had to stop. You were supposed to care for him- all you have to do is wait it out until he’s healed or he’ll talk to you or maybe he’ll still go to the hospital. Even if he did-

He’s too much. The slightest touch of his skin has you shivering and now? Now you’ll never be able to forget what it felt like to have him be the first person to caress your chest, knowing his fingers were just as deft as they looked, injured or not. You bite at your lips, feel the sensitive spot you'd left there, and focus on the physical, the present. You were so screwed. If you don't get your head on straight before you did something you’d regret…

Well, at worst you’d have slept with a stranger... Of mysterious origins and questionable morality and dubious intent. But still, there were worse things in the world than giving it up to a handsome man.

You needed out of the house for a while. Just to get a breath of fresh air- ground yourself in a world that isn’t exclusively centered around your visitor. That's all this was: cabin fever.

Groceries. The light clicks on in your head. You needed to run errands. Yes, yes- you could go and get food and restock your first aid kit. That should give you time to calm down, to figure out what you were going to do about him. You shut off the water and pat your face dry. Normally you’d jot things down on your phone, but it’s still out there. With him. And you can’t trust yourself quite enough for that yet. 

You dig around in your nightstand and produce a notepad and a pen that takes a few strokes before it leaves a dark blue mark. First, medical supplies. More bandages- and gauze pads for his shoulder. Burn cream, definitely. You had no idea how long he’d need that. You could do with more plain band-aids too. Food wise... Well. He didn’t seem very picky. You’d get some meat to make a stew tonight, you needed eggs, could probably do with more bread. Maybe you could grab some pasta? That’d be easy to make. Or a casserole?

You didn’t need to get a lot- you could go out again another day. Just enough to get you through a few nights.

You double check the door before undressing. The little turn-bit is firmly horizontal. A moment of paranoia makes you want to check if you can hear breathing on the otherwise of the plywood, but you shake that idea away. Even if he was there, he couldn't get in. You pick clean clothes from the dresser- it feels good to be dressed; it feels normal. A much needed break from the delirious dream you’d been stumbling through the last two days. You brush your hair in the mirror and straighten yourself up. You only needed control for a minute. 

You stop at your door, one hand laid on the cool metal. Tell him you’re going to get groceries. Get your phone and keys. Leave. You only need control for a minute.

You turn the knob. The empty space of the hallway surprises you- absurdity nearly makes you laugh. Had you really expected him to stand at your door and _wait?_

He’s still sitting, he’s too tall for the couch; his knees are folded up just too high, his hands laid serenely in his lap. The coveralls have been adjusted and rezipped, covering all the wounds you'd cleaned. He stares at the TV-- which is now on. The news plays, it’s the same anchor from yesterday morning. You can’t focus on her words, instead forcing your own voice from your throat. “I’m going to go to the store.” 

The mask turns. He stands all at once- his height alone makes you tremble, makes your mind _wander._ You steel your spine, quiet the shuddering in your breathing. “To make soup. And to get more bandages for you.” 

You can feel it again; a neediness in his gaze that threatens to consume you whole. But he doesn’t move towards you, just stands. Your knees nearly give out, but you make it to the coffee table and retrieve your phone. He doesn't move to stop you, does not follow you to the kitchen as you get your keys. He still stands in the living room and watches. You feel his displeasure and some part of you doesn't want to disappoint him. But you need to get out- if only for a little bit. 

“It’s alright, I’ll be back in an hour or so.” The calmness in your voice surprises even you. Caring for him does come naturally and the purpose of your excursion is not _entirely_ selfish. “Just sit and watch something. Let your wounds rest some more. It won’t be long.”

You want to leave without looking- to just let him deal with his problems himself. But you stand at the door for longer than you should’ve, wishing he’d sit and take your advice. To give you some unspoken approval, to give you _permission._ He doesn’t. His only response is the heavy breathing through the mask, nearly lost under the sound of the news station’s jingle playing. 

You roll you teeth over your lip and leave. 

He doesn’t stop you. 

You lock the door behind you. The November air is crisp and fresh, the cool breeze breathing life into your frazzled nerves. And as you step into your car, you see a shape in your window. Peering through your blinds, a cracked white mask watches you leave. 

It’s not there when you return. 

_Of course he isn’t._ You scold yourself. _He wouldn’t just stand there for half an hour._ Your goods managed to fit in only two bags and you hang those on your wrists. They’re heavy, but it’s doable. All you have to do is get to the door anyway. 

The key turns and you drop the bags inside- double checking that you locked your car. “Hey,” You call out- and get no response. About as expected. You close the door with your foot and manage to haul the bags around the corner and into the kitchen. The plastic left lines in your skin across your wrists, but you did it. 

You peek out into the living room. The TV is still on, the fake judicial show having made a return. The judge bangs her gavel- and there’s no man on your couch. Or peering through the windows, or bleeding out on the floor. You blink, look down the hallway- he’s not there either. _Must be in the bathroom,_ you reason and push the little voice in the back of your head down. The little thing whispering _he’s gone._

He wouldn’t. He was weird and obsessed with you. Unpacking groceries eases the sudden fear- a normal, everyday thing. The plastic bag crinkles softly as you remove items one by one. It needed to be done, and as you put the beef away, you hear the soft click of a door latching.

The relaxation is instant, even if your self-hatred for still being so worked up is persistent. You pull out the potatoes and a cutting board. You can feel him again, the hairs standing up on the back of your neck; it’s not uncomfortable. “The potatoes have to boil, so I’m starting them now.” You speak to the void. It says nothing back. 

You wash the tubers quickly, and take a knife from your block. There’s a sharp intake behind you; you turn. He’s back, as you had expected. No longer staying further back, he's taken his previous post of standing in the kitchen with you. It really confirms how damn silent he can be- and your brow furrows as you realize he's staring at you more intently than normal.

No, not you.

His mask dips just too low to be on you. The knife shines in your hand, glinting off the kitchen lights. A knife... Guilt lays heavy in your stomach. You turn, try to hide the blade behind your body. “Are you okay?” Did you bring back bad memories? He'd been stabbed and-

The mask snaps up to you, his right hand flexes. His breathing is loud, but steady, muffled through the latex. His nod is a sharp jerk of his chin.

You worry- but return to cooking. He’s been forward enough before. There’s something different about him now- before his agitation had been either of self-preservation (as warped as it was to avoid doctors) or... sexual in nature. You can’t tell- was he just anxious seeing you with a knife? Did he not... trust you?

You cube the first potato and push the thoughts away. You'd have to deal with them later, after you get everything cooking together. The sharp knife slides smoothly through it, thudding pleasantly on the wood board. You’re careful to cut them evenly- undercooked potatoes are torturous and you might as well spare your guest the additional trauma.

There’s a trauma you’d wish he’d spare you in return. The hunger- the devious heat behind his eyes is back, radiating in the air- his need to devour. Something predatory wafts off him, makes your hands shake. You swipe your pale cubes into a bowl and pull over another potato to begin again. Footsteps- and you can feel his presence over your shoulder, any closer and you would feel the heat of his body. His breath whistles in the narrow nose holes.

Your heart pounds in your chest and you feel like a rabbit in the wolf's maw. You steal a glance at him. His height is exaggerated from the high angle, towering over you- chin dropped to watch each motion of your hand. You tremble before him, your cutting paused so you don’t hurt yourself. He eyes slide up your arm to your face- the breathing even louder now.

You can’t imagine what he wants- you lick your lips. In the tight space, you manage to turn sideways towards him. “Do you... want to help?” You motion to the blade, hanging loosely in your hand.

His mask turns slow from you to the knife and back again. You move slow- if he was hesitant about knives you didn’t want to startle him. You turn the knife in your hand so you can offer him the black handle, the long silver point angled back at you. He stands there- 

And slowly takes the kitchen knife. His hand is so big it dwarfs the black plastic, almost entirely hidden under his huge palm. In the transfer his finger brushes against yours and you nearly drop it. He squeezes; you watch his knuckles turn white. You think nothing of it, until he steps forward again. 

The flat of the blade brushes against the side of your shirt- through the fabric you can feel the cold of the metal, solid and unwavering against your ribs. You gasp, try not to inhale too sharply. It’s exactly where he’d touched you before, where his right hand had paused before engulfing your chest, the heat still present in your mind. You search the blackness of his eye holes but find only that radiating power, the knowledge he could end your life with a flick of his wrist. It's no accident for him to do this- it's purposeful. He wants _something-_

And his wrist turns, the knife spinning sideways, scraping along your shirt- the cutting edge cradled delicately between two ribs. That thrilling, terrifying power surrounds you- the knife pressing closer for one agonizing moment. He’s fighting something, the dark impulse that guides him. All the other times he’s crowded you and threatened you or been inappropriate- it was for himself or to get a rise from you. Trying to goad you into giving in to whatever it is he wants- to not go to the hospital, to make some sexual pass at you.

But there’s no lust in this action; he could touch you with his other hand, or press the knife against your throat- hell, he could just choke you again if he was trying to punish you, to give you warning for some unseen trespass. But he stands there, the blade pressed just too hard into you, just on the edge of beginning to hurt. Your lips part of their own accord, drawing in a soft breath, seeking his eyes through the mask. You wished he’d show them to you again. You can’t look away now, can’t speak- can’t even will yourself to cry out or fight against him. 

And then, he wins. 

The knife moves away. You blink, wide-eyed up at him, silent despite the very real possibility that he would’ve killed you- that he _wanted_ to spill your blood across your kitchen floor. Your side hurts. His mask turns, looks to the cutting board and the potato, half cut and forgotten behind you.

He steps around you, and you follow his lead like a dancer, turning and letting him stand in front of the chopping board, lingering over his left side. You should be so much more afraid than you are. Your fingers tremble, _everything_ about you trembles, but his heat is familiar, comforting- you can’t move away. “Try to cut them the same size, like mine.” You point to the ones already cut. “It’ll make them cook evenly.” 

He holds the potato in place with his injured hand, you touch his arm, his back- he stiffens under the touch as he brings the knife back over the board. His arm flexes and the knife thuds into the board- too hard, but not hard enough to get the blade stuck. Light glints off it again and he raises it, scoots it over on the potato and tries again- still too hard, but working fine enough. You’ll just have to sharpen the blade later. His cuts are irregular, some bigger followed by smaller, like he’s trying to compensate but can’t judge it quite right. Must not cook often. You wonder if it’s to do with his eye.

You can’t help but smile; it’s kind of endearing. You could teach him to cook, at least some simple things. Another thud and he’s almost done with the cuts one way. “Now turn them,” You instruct, and watch as he holds the cuts together with his three fingers, and begins chopping longwise. You’ll definitely have some interesting potatoes. 

_bang_

You jump, twisting your fingers into the man’s coveralls. The front door. He hesitates, turns to look at the exit of the kitchen. You shake your head. “I’ll get it, you keep working on those. It’ll only be a minute.” Now who would be calling on you? You certainly weren't expecting anyone- maybe one of your neighbors?

You round the corner out into the entryway, wiping your hands messily on your pants. A peer through the peephole does not assuage your fears. You undo the lock and open the thick wood. 

A man stands before you in a pressed blue uniform, not too different from your guest’s. Except for the black belt covered in pouches- and the gun holstered on one hip and the shiny silver badge on his breast. He has tight gray coils and there is a warmth to his large, dark eyes. The fear pours into you- cops were never a good sign. Yet the fact you’d so nearly called them twice before is not lost on you. 

His voice is smooth and deceptively happy. “Hello, I’m Officer Jake Windsor with the state police. May I come in?” 

You introduce yourself curtly, but hesitate. “I’d rather not. Privacy and all.” Instead, you step outside and close the door behind you. Out in the driveway you can see the cop’s car parked next to yours, the lights off and empty. Alone.

He smiles and nods- it even looks genuine. Maybe it was. “I understand, we’re just out canvassing, looking for any leads on a recent case. Have you seen anything strange in the last few days?” 

Case. What case? Could it be him? You try not to betray too much, “What do you mean by strange?”

He ducks his head, picks his words carefully. “Well, people that shouldn’t be around. Maybe someone wearing a mask after Halloween?” A rock plummets through your stomach, every muscle going tense. Had someone reported him missing? The man before you sighs and takes off his cap, to scratch at his short, thick hair. “Listen, between you and me, this is about the Myers case.” 

“Myers?” The gears click in your head, the lens finally, excruciatingly coming into focus. _Myers._ The news story had been everywhere a few days ago. Your voice is far away, muffled in your own ears. “Michael Myers? The _serial killer?”_

Windsor nods, grimaces. “He escaped about a week ago now. Left a string of murders around Haddonfield. He was last seen at a cabin a few miles from here. Wasn’t much left, mostly just ashes-” his burns “-but until we know for certain that he’s dead, we just want to be cautious. Check if anyone's seen anything.” 

You stare past him, out into the woods. Into piles of orange and brown leaves that have begun to rot. “I haven’t… seen anything.” You shake your head, how could you have not seen it? His wounds- the excess blood. He wasn’t attacked, _he_ was the attacker. Oh, god you’d let him feel you up, he’s been in your room, and he- in your _shower--_ You wrap your arms around yourself in a weak attempt to keep the fear from pouring out of you.

The cop raises his hands, placating. “There’s no need to worry. If you see anyone unusual, call the police.” He shrugs, tries to come off as nonchalant, but you can see the shadow of worry over his dark eyes. “Just, don’t approach them.” He looks at you- and you can feel him trying to gauge your reaction. Did he have a clock on _I almost slept with a murderer?_

He sighs and steps away. Seems not. “That’s all I needed. You-”

“Is he dangerous?” Your voice comes out too fast, too worn to pass as anything other than terror.

Windsor bites his cheek and measures his options. He nods, “He’s killed seventeen people that we know of, this time. Plus the five he killed before.” He touches your forearms- gentle, just the tips of his fingers, trying to bring you back to the present. So different than- “Listen, we’re fairly sure he’s dead. Keep your doors locked and be cautious, you’ll be fine.” 

You could yell. You could tell him right now in whispered words- could drive off with him until the cavalry arrives. It would only take a word, take two- _he’s here._

You nod, and try to smile, your lips drawing tight across your face. “Thank you.” Why? Why why why-

Because it's not true. It can't be. He smiles back, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Don’t you worry. And have a good day.” 

You nod, and watch him climb down your creaky wooden stairs- watch him all the way to getting in his car. He waves, and you wave back- and he drives off, kicking up gravel as he goes. You watch- and see your life going with him. It's not true. You knew better than that. You had to.

The breeze picks up again, but you’re already cold. 

You turn the knob, hear the tumblers click, step inside. The warmth of your heater can do nothing for the chills on your skin, the icy knot in your stomach. You close the door and lean against it. You can’t mask this, what are you doing? If he knows you know, if it's _true_ then- dread chokes at your throat.

There’s no thudding in the kitchen, no scraping of the knife on the board. 

He knows.

Your heart races, blood rushing in your ears. A single boot steps into the entryway. Your eyes shoot up. Another footstep- and slowly, the blue coveralls return to view. He stands upright, tall and imposing, the white latex glaring down at you over his nose. He knows. 

You have to. “Michael?” The name is foreign, strange as you say it. He wouldn’t respond. He was just your guest- not an escaped murderer. Just silent and scarred and traumatized. He couldn’t be. 

He turns his wrist- the knife flashes in his hand. 

Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out, the tears finally spouting from your eyes, leaving hot tracks over your cheeks. You lick your lips and taste salt. How could you not recognize the mask? Not piece together who he was? 

The handle creaks in his grasp, his head tilting ever so slowly. Your tongue is thick in your mouth, your whole body heavy under his gaze. You’d bandaged him, washed him- the white gauze on his left hand peeks out from under the sleeves. Your breath is ragged, and every fiber of you wants to run because he _knows-_

The light shines through your living room windows and as he tilts his head, you catch his eyes. 

You’re pinned, frozen where you are, tears blurring your vision even as you blink them away to hold onto the weak connection you have. He’s icy blue-gray, cold and far away, his pupils grown wide in something you can’t name. There’s a heat to them, a burning need somewhere inside him that threatens to consume- and you watch through the lit mask as his eyes narrow, one gray brow dipping into sight for a fraction of a second.

His mask turns upright, and the vision is gone. Your connection is gone. A sob catches in your throat and you just want to know _why-_

And he turns. Turns away from you. He walks down your long hallway with even, unhurried steps that creak at your floorboards. His shoulders hardly move. He turns out to your laundry room. He does not look back, does not even hesitate- and you hold your breath as you hear the turning of your back door's lock, the creaking of the old wood protesting opening.

You stand there for several long minute, time turning into a sluggish slurry. When he does not return you slide down the front door, your head spinning. 

Wind filters through your house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Breast and nipple stimulation, Reader has an implicitly unaltered DFAB body. Michael continues to be possessive and controlling. Implicit violent threat to Reader (Michael presses a knife to Reader's body). 
> 
> xxxxx
> 
> Please, please leave a comment if you can! Even if it's just a smiley face it really brightens my day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stands at your doorway like a vampire; he could push you out of the way, force his way into your home. He doesn’t. He stands and stares at you in the darkness, the last of the sunlight fading behind him until the brightest thing on your horizon is the reflection off white latex. There’s a tenseness to his shoulders. A head tilt- so very slowly to his right- is the only communication he gives you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more sexual content this chapter so be warned. Thank you all so much for sticking around!!

The morning light slides through your blinds, but you’ve already been awake for hours. Sleepless again. You lay in bed still, not even hunger willing you to get up just yet. It’s been three days- three days of guilt and anxiety and the endless pit of despair knowing what you’d done.

He was gone. _Michael Myers_ who you had bathed and fed and tended to and _wanted_ was gone. Gone with _your_ kitchen knife, _your_ bandages on his wounds. He’d wanted something from you. You suppose he’d gotten it. Why else would he turn on his heel and leave unless he had nothing else he wanted from you?

A bird singing outside your window drives you from your bed. It’s too chipper, too joyous, the sun too bright. Didn't the rest of the world know? You don’t bother changing, don’t bother brushing your teeth. Too-bitter coffee brings an artificial life to your bones, helps to break up the painful heaviness around your eyes. You do not think of the extra cup you had made three days ago, do not think of sipping coffee so serenely in the living room with him. You do not feel the empty ache in your chest for the lost relationship you had thought you had with a mysterious, masked stranger.

You make yourself watch the news. It’s penance, watching the woman with your staticky connection. Her lips are painted a perfect crimson as she recounts a string of murders the next town over. _Gruesome,_ her lips form, _Vicious stabbing._ The rest doesn’t matter. 

You caused this. 

You could’ve left him there in the forest and no one would’ve known. He'd be rot and bones and a bad memories. You’ve killed people now. All because you didn’t want to see him bleed out. Your stomach churns, self-hatred threatening to boil over. 

You still don’t want him to bleed out. 

He didn’t kill you. He thought about it- you knew well enough. The long moment in the kitchen when he had the knife pressed against you, the hatred and something else deep in his eyes. Some part of him wanted to drive the blade between your ribs. Something stopped him.

You want to know why. 

_Why?_ Why had he stayed in your house for so long when he killed everyone else? Why not leave as soon as he was patched up that first night? It haunts you. Had he wanted to kill you that night, too, when you’d woken to him in your room? You need to know. 

You might never get the chance. 

The police arrive. It’s not officer Windsor. A white man with dark stubble and a detective’s badge waits at your door, his uniform is pressed and clean, a long tan coat fends off the chilly air. He greets you with a stiff “Afternoon.” His eyes are blue-gray, perceptive and piercing, but they have no hold on you. Not like-

The detective is seasoned and dripping with saccharine-sweet words. He clears his throat, speaks with cloying deception. “We’re double checking on some information. Mind if we talk a while?” His voice sparks a pain in your head and you resist the urge to press the heels of your palms against your eyes. He can read people like cheap novels- the way he squints when he looks at you, taking quick glances at where your fingers pick at the hem of your shirt.

He’s reading you now. He knows you feel guilt, there’s a tightness around his face that betrays his doubt. He’s right, of course. You meet blue eyes and dare him to guess the extent of your crime. You have regrets- but you can't justify spending the rest of your life in jail. Can't justify betraying him, as much as you hate what he's done. You answer his questions, _No I haven’t seen anything,_ and _Yes, I heard about those murders._ You’re too tired, too carefully holding onto your last thread of sanity to tell if you’re even remotely convincing. 

Maybe he just thinks you’re in shock. Maybe you are.

A sickly sweet smile follows, curls over his face; It splits his cheeks, ruffles the dark remnants of a beard, shows too much teeth. Fear doesn’t even register to you, the detective is just _annoying_ now. You long for the muted expressions you’d gotten so comfortable with. “Mind if I look around your property? Won’t take long.” 

It doesn’t matter. You’d already scrubbed the blood from your floor, his mark from your underwear. Every trace of him in your house has been obliterated. You shrug and motion out towards a marker just before the trees. It’s old and worn down, flanked on each side by dilapidated fence posts that had collapsed long before you moved in. “My yard only goes that far. Mr. Morton owns everything else around here.” 

The detective nods and wanders around for several minutes. You watch from your porch and drink your coffee, willing the pain between your eyes to cease. You don’t know what he hopes to find or why he was onto you to begin with, but you hope he gives up soon. Or just arrests you. The sooner this is over the better. 

You look again to the woods, out towards where you’d first seen him, leaves wind-swept over his prone form. You wonder just how far from your house you had been when you’d found him. Would there still be a blood pool there? You hadn’t known who he was- you want to go back to that so badly. You took care of him as a good Samaritan. That wouldn’t stop the police from locking you up forever. 

Good intentions and all that.

When the detective is done poking through your bushes, subtly peering through your windows, he circles back around to you. He smiles again- but you know he found nothing to be so happy about. “Call if you see anything.” He gives you a card, with his contact information in fancy, tiny, black font. “And try to get some sleep.” 

You try for a grin, but from his grimace you don’t think you quite make it. He drives off and you’re left with the strange feeling of having to go back inside. It's not right to be in there. The knob turns and you almost expect to find him lurking in your shadows again, lingering just around the corner into the kitchen or living room. It's empty. 

It should be comforting that you’re home alone. That you haven’t seen him since he left. There’s no strange man who stands in your bedroom, who presses his hand to your throat like he owns you. 

You haven’t changed the locks. You look through the hall in vain hope to find white latex lurking peeking out from the laundry room, to find him standing, waiting at the end of your bed. Sitting in the comically small couch and watching television. 

Somehow, it only makes the house feel lonely. Empty. Before it had been snug and cozy. You rip up the business card, feel the satisfying resistance of the paper and let it tumble away into an indecipherable pile of letters.

The news is still playing when you step into the living room, the anchor moving on to some story about gas prices. You don’t really care. But watching a screen is a good way to pass time, an easy pass to disengaging with reality, so you sit and you finish your drink and you wait. All you have now is time.

You sleep and dream of pale, white faces and the ringing of blades. Your mouth is dry. The TV drones on- a police procedural taking up the air time. You blink, feel your eyes burn from the incomplete nap and get your bearings; it’s just after dark, which given November’s preference for short days, doesn’t mean much. The couch had left your legs numb from being bent to fit on it and you stumble into the kitchen, hissing when the numbness faded to pins and needles. 

You turn on the water and cup your hands, drinking freely and pressing your cold fingers to the bags under your eyes. You'll need more coffee soon. The rushing water is nice to listen to- you close your eyes again, press your forehead to the faucet. You couldn’t sleep like this, standing nearly upright in your kitchen, but it’s nice to imagine. Pleasant sounds can’t help you. The knob squeaks as you turn off the tap. Nothing can help you except

A static fills your mind- and you _know._ Life springs back to your veins. You're frozen in place only a heartbeat. The blinds over your sink rattle- you grab at them, pop the thin metal out of place as you peer into the growing darkness. No, no, not there- Your heart races. You don’t know how but you _know-_

You twist the front door open, the light of your living room illuminating a long rectangle over your porch, the stairs, and out onto the yard. And at the very end of the yellow-white light are the tip of someone’s boots. 

Michael stands just beyond the stairs; the light makes it to the edges of his toes and not one inch further. Your knife is gone. He’s empty handed- but you know better than to think him unarmed. 

Anticipation vies with anxiety for correct reaction, both making you feel lightheaded, dizzy. It’s all you can do to stand in your doorway, to cling to the door itself. The prey instinct in your head screams out again. You won’t run. So you stare into the depths of his mask- completely hidden in the shadow and he steps forward. That electric fear starts up again- you force it down and watch as he climbs your porch’s stairs two at a time. 

You field of vision narrows down to the wide expanse of blue fabric stained with something from your nightmares. You’d laundered it so nicely, getting rid of the worst of the bloodstains, only for him to get more. A long bright red streak is splashed from his right shoulder to his left hip. There’s larger stain in the fabric just above the waist, the blood soaked in deep and already dried- a slash in the coveralls where the fabric is frayed. It smells different when the blood is fresh. There’s no mistaking why he’s bloody this time. He is no victim, no sweet and strange old man in need of help.

Your eyes slide up him, taking in each splatter that was your own doing. Spots along his collar that you can’t imagine how they originated- and dotted over the left cheek of his mask. You can’t see him through the latex, but that itching, radiating power seeps through his clothes. Even covered in blood, that need to kill follows him.

He stands at your doorway like a vampire; he could push you out of the way, force his way into your home. He doesn’t. He stands and stares at you in the darkness, the last of the sunlight fading behind him until the brightest thing on your horizon is the reflection off white latex. There’s a tenseness to his shoulders. A head tilt- so very slowly to his right- is the only communication he gives you. 

You should've run.

“Okay.” You step away from the door, holding the wood open for him. He looks at you- and you wonder what passes through his head. He must know you’re insane. You can’t explain it, either. His presence is unnerving, makes your breath catch as he steps into your home- but that bloodied slash on his abdomen concerns you. And that’s just the core of it, isn’t it? He’s covered in other people’s blood and you care first about his own.

The door closes behind him and before you can consider the consequences, your fingers dance along the frayed edges of the coveralls. You feel his inhale, his belly tightening against your fingertips. It’s a good feeling, the life under his skin-

It’s hard to reconcile; the joy you feel at knowing he’s okay enough to walk, and the disgust knowing what he’s doing- what he’s done. The guilt, that you let him do it. You look up to his mask, as though expecting anything other than the aged, warped latex and the heavy sounds of his breathing. 

Your hand falls away, and again, you stare through the darkness of his eyes. The air between you prickles. You breathe out, “Guess I have to patch you up again?”

He leads you down the hallway. Something compels you to follow. You don’t understand why you can’t leave him- you have no sympathy for murderers, no desire to associate with those who attack for no reason. And yet. You wring your hands.

He walks through your bedroom as if it were his, no hesitation, no interest in looking around this time. He stops in your bathroom. The shoes come off easy and he drops them to the side, sitting almost casually at the side of your tub to peel off his socks-

You suck in air through your teeth. He walks on it like its nothing. Bastard probably _doesn’t_ feel pain. His right ankle is swollen and nearly glowing pink. You sink to your knees onto the bath mat- Michael tenses, but relaxes as you take his foot in hand. You roll up the hems of his pants leg, about halfway to his knee. If it hurts at all, he doesn’t show it. 

You wish he would; you’d rather know and stop than hurt him. But you rotate his leg as best you can and hope you're gentle. “When did this happen?”

You look up, stupid enough to expect him to answer. Okay, try again: “A while ago?” You pause, “Recently?” 

He still does not answer. His cooperation has disappeared with your knife. You frown and touch the skin; it’s warm. You don’t know near enough about soft tissue damage. “I need to look this up.” You start to stand-

He pushes you back down to you knees with only one hand. He catches your wrist and brings it up to the zipper of his coveralls . It’s tacky, your knuckles brushing a dampness to his shirt. Nausea fills your head, but Michael’s eyes, hidden in shadow, compel you. You drag the zipper down. The metallic noise is muffled, altered in the blood. 

His bruises have healed considerably, his chest a mottled yellow-green, but a purple tinge remains to his lower ribs. He doesn’t move through it all. Your hands shake, but the confidence of repetition lets you push it off his shoulders. Because he’s sitting, the dirtied cloth of his coveralls pools at his waist. A sadness settles in your chest and you touch the brown bandage on his left shoulder. Underneath, the wound is messy and irritated. Of course, he hasn’t been caring for himself. 

You peel the rest of the sleeve off his arm- the bandage for the stab wound near his shoulder looks relatively clean, but the slash at his wrist is missing its bandage entirely. You frown, want to scold him despite his overwhelming presence in the air. The skin on either side of the half-picked scab is soft. You rub your thumb over it. _It’s not right._

A murderer shouldn’t have skin so nice. You shouldn’t want to kiss his hand- dirty and bloodsoaked as they are- so you look at his burns. They’re better than the last time you looked, the salve having set in deep. The least burned areas actually looked like skin again, with only minimal smooth scarring. You don’t think he cares about that, though.

You move to the other sleeve- and curse as you find an open wound. The coveralls peel away slow and thick- the blood already smeared on his arm coming away with the same texture as his clothing, dotted and lined down his bicep. The skin itself is jagged and ripped- You don’t have your kit with you- it’s out in the living room. You look around; one dark, unused hand towel sits on the corner of your bathroom sink. It’s not far, but-

Michael’s hand finds your wrist. His grasp is uncomfortable, but not yet painful. You know very well that could change. You don't know if whatever had stopped Michael from killing you before still stays his hand.

“I just want to get that towel.” You point at it with your as of yet free hand. “To clean this.”

The hand tightens, pulling a wince from you- the tiny bones of your wrist aching as he drags you back to the wet sleeve. “Michael,” you hardly breathe, “please.”

His hand stiffens, but does not hurt you. A sickening mix of horror and warmth spreads through your abdomen; if you weren’t so close, you might’ve missed the way the jumpsuit tightens around his waist, the heavy exhale that follows. _it’s wrong._ He likes that- you don’t know what part. Saying his name? Begging? Your pained look? Revulsion crawls on your skin. Despite whatever physical response his body gave, he doesn’t let go of your hands. You pull your lips tight and take hold of the bloodied fabric again. Only then does his grip loosen and fall away.

You pull it all the way off, over his wrist and ruined hand. The long, smooth burn also looked better- but very far from healed. It was simply too deep to get much done in the few days he was away- considering how little care he showed to his own wounds, you’d be surprised if it ever healed without your touch. The guilt returns and you wish so badly that you could go back. 

His fingers are another matter. The bandage is filthy, covered in dirt and dried blood- as is his hand and the rest of the burns across his palm. You turn his hand in yours and find only the grime caught under his nails, the black stains of something you can’t identify. You hate him, but you hate yourself more- because underneath it all is that stupid, insufferable feeling of sadness. You wanted him to take care of himself- not so he’d leave you alone, but so he wouldn’t be _hurt_. 

You peel away the bandages over the remains of his fingers- and thankfully find a perfect outline of the bandage beneath. His skin is untouched and clean in satisfying rectangles- the edges of which are still sticky from the tape. You grimace, but inspect the stumps themselves. There’s drainage- but it looks no different than the gunshot wound had before his latest escapade. 

And finally, just above where the upper part of his coveralls gathered at his waist, you find a long slash- smooth like the knife wounds to his right arm. _Fuck._ It’s old. Entirely scabbed, dried blood twisted into the gray hairs that descend from his navel to somewhere below his belt line. You touch his skin there, his stomach flexes under your fingertips. _That’s not good._ His skin is warm to the touch, the scab yellowing at the edges, an unusual crust along the coagulated blood. It’s already closed, there’s not much you can do now- but your meager googling of infected wounds looked unpleasantly similar. 

The new arm wound weeps blood, scarlet running smoothly down his arm. How long ago had he lost his knife?

You look to him, find his mask already peering down at you. Your hands rest idle in your lap. What else he wants you to do is lost- with him sitting you can’t do much else, you’d already inspected and removed all his bandages. You needed your kit now- 

Michael stands and hooks his fingers into the waist of the coveralls. You realize what he’s going to do as the cloth is already falling. Your cheeks burn. You avert your eyes, but it doesn’t stop what you’ve already seen. His cock is half-thickened, still velvety and soft-looking even as it twitches once, beginning to lift up. You want to touch him, to _taste_ him. You can’t. 

Won’t. 

He waits- and you still don’t understand him. He could force you. You’re all too aware of that fact- that he could hold you down and do what he wants with you. Maybe he just likes to see the color in your cheeks or making you squirm. Would he use you, or make you writhe for him? The traitorous voice in the back of your head- the one you smother down at every chance whispers _They’re not mutually exclusive._ That brings a new wave of tingling heat between your legs. 

He steps out of the coveralls- and steps into the tub, turning away from you. Blood splatters on the white porcelain, but you take your freedom. You gather his discarded clothing- but the burning gaze on you makes you hesitate before leaving the bathroom. “I’ll put these in the wash again. And I’ll get the first aid kit.” 

Michael gives you no affirmation, but does not stop you as he turns the knobs for your shower.

You dump the clothes in the wash with just a touch too much detergent- and you stripped off your shirt. Blood had seeped into the cuffs, small drops marring the front. The November air crept into your laundry room, brought goosebumps down your arms, a familiar tightness to your nipples. It didn’t matter. You turned the machine on and, half-naked, moved back through the living room to get the restocked first aid kit you’d left on the coffee table (the empty plastic sack sat just under its legs, abandoned) and your phone. You’d hardly remembered to charge it- but you google quickly _ankle sprain care_

The sound of rushing water makes you lift your head. You hope he remembers not to scrub. You read from the web page as you return to your room. The sound of the water changes- no longer running from the faucet but from the showerhead- the noise high pitched and more diffused. You need to wrap his foot in a good position. There’s a tightly wound compression wrap at the bottom of your red medical bag- that would have to do. Who knows if you could actually make Michael fucking Myers wear a compression wrap. 

The sound of the water changes again- back to the heavy thumping of the tub faucet. You enter the bedroom- and from the still-open door to the bathroom, you know he’s not showering anymore. Your dresser is just out of line of sight from the bathroom, but it doesn’t stop you from grabbing the first top you see instead of searching for something better. It’s a tank top- which if you’re going to be cleaning up more of Michael’s wounds, it’s fine. 

You grab the hand towel you’d seen and brace yourself. You’d hoped to find him testing the water; showering was fine with wounds like his. Not amazing with an _open_ one, but not the worst. Instead, it seems he’s only rinsed himself under the showerhead- the worst of his grime already washed away, an actual flesh tone returning to his hands instead of the black-brown of dirt and old blood.

Instead, he lounges in your tub that’s too small even for you, and almost comical with how his uninjured leg is folded up, his knee poking out of the water, the injured right ankle extended over the edge of the porcelain, hanging somewhat uselessly. But more concerning: something is laid neatly against the wall in a warped pile of white latex, haloed by dark, dirty synthetic hair. You step into the bathroom- and look at him.

He’s found the stopper to your tub and it fills slowly, steam rising around him. You’d seen him nude before- he’d intentionally surprised you the last time you got him to bathe. It’s different now. Peril still lingers in the air, his working stormy eye glints dangerously beneath his eyelashes; a chill runs down your spine. You could leave him, let him handle himself. 

You know what he wants- what he keeps wanting. You can’t understand it. But you want to. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t killed you. What choice do you really have? You wanted to know why and there's really only one option.

You scoot the bath mat flush to the side of the tub, already predicting spills onto the tile. You watch him as you return to your knees. It’s weird, being eye-level with him- so close to him without his mask. The last time…

Your neck burns in memory; ghostly teeth scrape so slightly against the column of your throat. You set the red bag aside and focus on the washcloth. 

Michael follows you with his eyes- they’re cold and flat, something still unsated and hungry deep inside. The beast is quiet now, but its presence has not left. He holds you with his gaze- intensity alone bringing a wetness to your eyes. You can’t wash him if you don’t look away- so you break to the thin lines of his lips, surrounded by silver hair; it’s grown out some. Did it itch under the mask? You want so badly to know- his nose is crooked from a fight, the scar splits his cheek. You follow it like a map up to his milky eye, which still centers on you, unseeingly. 

But under his eyes are heavy bags. You can’t distinguish how much of that is age and how much is exhaustion, but if the shape at the end of your bed for the two mornings he had been here was any suggestion, he must sleep very little. Has he slept at all since he was here?

You touch his cheek. Your finger slides perpendicular across the thin scar before you can understand what you’re doing. His stubble scratches at your hand.

Eyes bore into you. The predator lurks under his skin, hungry jaws waiting for you to venture too close. You look to his chest to center yourself- the still-running water rises slowly up to his ribs. The infected wound on his abdomen sinks beneath the surface, you want to scold him. You know he won't listen, won't give you more than a head tilt.

You turn off the water and dip the towel into the tub. The water’s already discolored. You start at his right hand. You’re careful, squeezing water over him like a shower before wiping- so very gently, not wanting to disturb the sealed scabs. The grime clings to his fingernails and cuticles, deep in the wrinkles and scars of his hands. 

You move up his arm, your cleaning less hostagely and more reverent; you hold where no bruises mar his skin, you’re methodical in your approach, swiping each angle before moving on. You bite your lip at his shoulder. You don’t want to get another wound infected. Sweat sticks to his skin, so you rinse him- soaking your rag entirely and letting the water run freely over his chest and back. You’d don’t dare to rub too close to the delicate gunshot wound of his shoulder or the long, red line of the knife wound. 

You move closer to his neck- and for a torturous moment, his jaw clenches. The emotionless cover of his face fades to a red hot second of suspicion. You’re too close to his throat- he knows how easy it is to kill, how delicate and thin the skin is; he knows the joys of crushing and cutting. The trust you’d formed is fragile, a single wavering thread-

You squeeze through the hot rag, into the breadth of his shoulder, just below the juncture of his neck. Whatever sharpness that remained in his body cracks, shatters under your touch. His eyes widen, brow raising in a pleasant surprise- before dipping back down. The tension bleeds from his jaw and his lips part softly as he exhales long and slow. Pride swells in you- and you squeeze at the back of his neck. 

You feel the shudder across his body- the momentary mix of confusion and pleasure across his features before he can reign himself in. Had nobody ever rubbed his shoulders before? Sadness slips through your mind, and you twist, reach to fit both arms behind him. His guard comes up again. It doesn’t completely fall as you dig into his left shoulder with your thumb, rubbing along his spine. His eyes are cat-like, nearly closing as you massage his shoulders, working out long-forgotten knots and every sore place left from his hunt. 

He doesn’t quite close his eyes, still watching you from under his lashes, but the devouring presence inside him retreats for the moment, and that’s good enough. You work down along his spine, pressing into each muscle and with each tired, slow dip of his eyelids, you truly wonder. Fifty-five years he’s lost. Sanitariums are not by any means the most social, the most growth-inspiring places. Especially ones from _half a century_ ago. Had he… ever been touched like this? 

Not just bathing- for surely he had to bathe somehow. You find a tense spot just below his sixth rib on the right side. You break it apart with your thumbs, work it back to smoothness. You’d tended to him when he woke up. Had anyone ever… been kind to him? Had they only seen the sister-killer? 

You swallow. It’s what he was, though. A murderer. The hands you’ve washed and bandaged have taken life. He needed this care fifty years ago, not now. Still, you can't push the idea of what he would be like now if he'd had a loving touch.

You withdraw from behind him and he relaxes- truly, relaxes- back against the edge of the tub. You take his other hand and begin washing again. You clean his intact fingers with precision, scrubbing the dirt and filth and revealing how nice he could look. The wound on his hand was extensive- you only rinsed it, and carefully place his hand on his chest, out of the water. 

With his torso soaking, you move down to his legs. You can get the hard one out of the way first- and lean over his extended right leg to reach the left. You still find no injuries to his legs- aside from the obvious sprain. You hold his thigh, dragging the cloth over the thick muscle there- lean and soft with age, but firm below the surface. You press into his flesh there, following down the lines of his thigh and are justly rewarded with the same long, slow exhale. You don’t dare venture all the way around his leg. 

It doesn’t matter. You move down to his knee, begin to rub at his calf. His right hand slips down over his belly, settling between his thighs. You hesitate. You seek his eyes out again- and though they’re as soft as you’ve ever seen them, the threat lurks just beyond the surface. 

You try not to look.

The incessant ache between your legs won’t let you ignore it entirely. You move to his right leg and start again at his thigh. And as you peer at the shape of his thighs and where they join to his hips- his fingers are wrapped around himself. He’s hard, just under the water line; it’s thicker than you expected and curves upwards with a touch of a lean to the right. He isn’t stroking it. The head is red and full, a soft, milky string floats just beyond it. 

You’re disgusted.

You want him.

You realize your hands had stopped cleaning him of their own accord. You sneak a glance at his face again; he’s keeping hold of his damnable control. But you know he noticed your fascination- you hate yourself more. You clean his injured leg and take care with his calf not to agitate the joint. Not that you can tell if you do any damage- Michael might as well be a statue for how little he shows you. You begin to lean away-

He shows you more. His hips shift in the water, sending tiny waves through the tub- and even from where you sit, you can see. He still won’t stroke it. He just holds it, his fingers spread evenly along his skin. He stares at you. He wants you to look at him, but you don’t know what more he wants. If he would only _talk-_

No, you know what he wants in the end- what he’ll eventually take from you. But you don’t know what he expects you to do _right now_. You hold his foot in place as you dab at his swollen ankle. You stop after that. You bathed him. There was nothing left to do. Well.

The bottles at the corner of your shower draw your attention. You swallow thickly. That was too intimate. You couldn’t. He wouldn’t let you, you were sure- but your fingers itch at the idea of scrubbing shampoo into his hair, maybe even into the curls of his quickly growing beard. 

You liked that idea more than you should. 

His head tilts slowly, and you imagine the waves of his white beard soapy and bubbly. It draws one corner of your mouth up, you don’t bother hiding it from Michael’s view. It feels forbidden. Wrong. So you think of what that other Michael Myers might be like. 

His eyes tighten and relax too fast to decipher. Was it curiosity at your odd smile? Anger? Arousal? 

You look between his legs. He holds too tight- a stiffness to his fingers. Maybe he likes it like that- tight and slow- but you can’t help but feel there’s something else at hand. You shouldn’t. You joy fades- and you see him squeeze a little more. You wince, imagine the heavy pressure like that against yourself. It can't be enjoyable- no, there's something... wrong.

The water is tepid at best now and you dip your fingers in. His wrist is bonier than you expect, but you curl your fingers around his forearm. You meet his stormy eyes. They’re unreadable- clouded gray and seeing through you again. You wish he would speak to you, just to make this easier. You lick your lips, and pull on his wrist- hardly more than a suggestion. Your voice is low and quiet, pleading, “Michael.” 

They focus on you. There’s a challenge behind his eyes now. You couldn’t make him stop, nobody would make Michael Myers do anything. You lick your lips again, breathe out slowly. You’ll lose this game either way. 

The words are foreign in your ears, “I’ll help you.” Your exhale is shaky, “Just, let me bandage you first.” The black of his pupil swells, nearly consumes the blue-gray entirely. From parted lips, he inhales- you draw your hand out of the water. “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and then,” Your lip trembles, “I’ll help you.” 

You were always going to lose this game. Might as well be on your own terms.

The laundry room is silent, long ago the washing machine played its jingle to a missing audience. You move the laundry over, not even checking if the blood had come free. Everything about you was shaking. 

Could you do it? 

You had to. There was something wrong about the way he’d touched himself- squeezing too tight. His knuckles had begun to blanch. Pressing his thumb down just below the head. Like he- 

Like he wanted it to hurt. 

Your hand hovers over the dial on your dryer. You don’t know what to do with that. Was he... trying to hold back? Trying to make it go away? Did he just _like_ that? You can’t imagine what goes on in his mind- you can’t get a single word out of him, let alone understand how he ticks.

You don’t have a choice now. What makes Michael Myers do what he does is beyond your pay grade, but you were fairly sure lying or betrayal would not restore your place as favorite. Or whatever it was that had made him decide to haunt your house instead of gutting you. 

You’re starting to think he just wants to fuck you. It wouldn’t be so bad if he were anyone else. You feel... something for him, something softer than you want to name for an infamous spree killer. But there’s still worse:

If all he wanted was to fuck you, would he kill you after?

At least then you’d know for sure what set you apart. 

The dial turns with satisfying clicks. You couldn’t escape this now. The dryer starts.

You’d re-bandage him, and then you’d find out for sure. 

Your stomach flips, you want to flee- and yet you think of gray eyes. There’s something captivating about him- for all the danger he embodies, the horrible deeds you can’t even think about, you want to know what his world is like. You want to understand how he could hold a knife to your ribs and decide not to kill you, but still return covered in someone else’s blood. Such a dark and terrible fascination.

There’s no more time to buy. You hold your breath and return to you room.

He’s not in the bathroom anymore. He sits, dripping wet, on the edge of your bed. His head is tipped down, staring into his hands and at the white latex mask. You blink, swallow hard and close the door behind you. You want to meet his eyes again, want another chance to decipher whatever he holds inside, but you can’t. 

Shivers roll across your skin in waves, and you pass by him without peeking. At his face or anywhere else. It’d be too much- you’d vibrate right out of your body, break down crying and hysterical.

There’s a murderer in your house. You’re going to help him- help him-

You dig your fingernails into the harsh red material of the first aid kit’s bag. The white vinyl plus design is peeling and cracked. You want to pick off every speck until there’s nothing left. But you grab a fresh towel and turn. 

He’s already watching you. Hungry, piercing- and cold. Your legs go numb- you nearly fall, catching yourself against the counter. He’ll devour you whole, leave nothing left- an empty void in the middle of your room, threatening to suck everything you’d ever known into the abyss that gazes back at you. He sets the mask beside him without breaking your connection. 

You step forward, trusting your memory of the room to bring you to him. The only movement is how he turns to keep his eyes on you. You break away to open the kit and place it on the corner of the bed. You don’t have to look at him if you’re bandaging him. You start with the new slash to his arm; the warm water made the cut slow to close and it still weeps gently at the front. You can see the real shape of it now: a ripped, split-skin thing without the gentle tapers of Michael’s knife injuries, uneven enough to make it hard for the skin to meet together again. You can’t imagine what sort of weapon made such a wicked wound. You dot some antibiotic ointment on a rectangular bandage- and sigh in relief that it’s long enough. 

His gunshot is the only other wound that’s still actively draining. You cut another gauze pad and remind yourself you need to check it tomorrow. You wouldn’t get him to go to the hospital, but at least you could keep his bandages clean.

You steal a glance at his cheek- and find the skin glue still holding his mouth together, turning grayer with the dead skin stuck around the edges. That was normal- you’re pretty sure, at least. Just like a scab, it would let go bit by bit when the wound had healed and shed a layer. You look away before you were trapped again. 

His missing fingers were the only remaining wound that you worried about reopening or draining. His hand is pliant, when you pick it up, relaxed and neutral for you. Aside from the damage, his hands are rather nice; worn with age, but it seems time spent away from society kept his off hand uncalloused, the flesh of his palm soft and warm. You can’t even really fault the slowly closing burns. You know on his right hand there's a new roughness forming across his fingers, a tiny blister from years of disuse dissolving into a murderous rage of weaponry. You like this hand better. 

With medical scissors you snip two more gauze pads into the same shape as before and tuck them carefully around the remains of the fingers, taping the gauze down and sealing the wound. 

There’s one last thing to do. From the kit you dig out one pristine, tightly rolled, tan cloth. You close your eyes and sink down to your knees. 

_Don’t look at it,_ you whisper in your head, _don’t look._

You’re trembling as you take his foot. It’s still warm around the joint and fat with swelling. “Might hurt,” you warn him. You shift his foot up into the correct position and unwind the compression wrap. You start it around his leg, a single loop stuck to itself, then form smooth alternating figure eights between calf and the sole of his foot. You want to look to his face- maybe you could tell pain in his eyes this time, but- _don’t look up._

The wrap ends in a velcro strip, designed to stick anywhere on itself. You hold it for a minute, but try not to let the wrap loosen too much. Sticking it feels impossible; Michael has no other wounds that need attention. You waver-

Fingers thread through your hair. You gasp, struggle to breathe as they slide from the top of your skull down around your ear, down under your chin, warm against your skin. He doesn’t make you look up, just holds you there. Reminds you of your promise. You press the wrap down. Only then does he tip your chin. You pinch your eyes closed.

He waits, trails the odd callous on his thumb across the joint of your jaw. He waited forty years to escape, he’s not going anywhere now. He urges you up by the chin and you blindly follow. You shouldn’t trust him. 

You make it up to your feet; your fingertips can just reach his knees. He traps you between them, shaking like a leaf in the wind- his hand under your chin the last connection to the world. His left hand finds the back of your still-clothed thigh. Three fingers trail up to the curve of your butt, cupping it in his palm. You whimper, slap a hand over your mouth in shame. 

The hand leaves you chin, clamps vice-like around your wrist and you _do_ cry out- and he hauls you forward. Your eyes snap open, your body folding, grabbing his shoulders to accommodate him pulling you up- onto his lap. His eyes catch yours, and you can’t look away. 

Your legs are tucked neatly beneath you on either side of his thighs, parted wide enough you know he could touch you through the thin fabric if he wanted. For now, your pants and underwear protect you. But not entirely, his hands have wound up at your waist. The angle’s all wrong, but you feel him. Hot, hard, long against your belly. His cock is pressed upright between you you're so close. It twitches and you whimper, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders again- only in the back of your mind remembering to be careful of his wounds. 

You want to look away. So close, you can see the layers and patterns in his blue-gray eye; cyan ringing the pupil, gray radiating out in splotches. The other eye is milky blue, glassed and unseeing- more wrinkles have formed around it than the other. And both are unreadable, deep and yet, empty, like a well that's long ago run dry. There’s no emotion betrayed, not a hint of empathy or compassion for your racing heart, the shivering of your spine, the burning tears that threaten to bud at the corners of your eyes. 

You want to kiss him. It’d be almost normal- kissing was something normal people did. But he's too intense, too powerful. It’s too intimate- your core tingles, wants to know what he fingers would feel like. His left hand finds your hair. Nails scratch along your scalp so pleasantly- your eyes drift closed again.

He twists, your roots burn- eyes coming open with a startled gasp. He wants to be read now: the meaning is clear as he peers down his nose at you. He wants you to look at him. 

The hand still at your waist slides up, a shiver making you flex against him as his palm pushes up your shirt as he moves, but keeps going. Through the tank, he cups your breast again. You squirm, the warmth of his skin soaking through the fabric. You didn’t have to see his face last time- didn't have to watch as he tips his head to watch as he pulls your shirt down. You can't help the weak gasp you give, can't help the way your thighs draw together at his sides when he looks back up to you and locks you back into his gaze.

His skin is burning. The heat of his palm does not dissuade the cool of the air from drawing your nipple into a bud. Just the curve of his hand around your breast has you wanting to close your eyes again- and is rewarded with a warning tug at your hair. He squeezes so gently at first, testing the softness of your flesh- before there’s a near imperceptible glint to his eyes, the smallest tightening of his brow. Fingers dig in, repeating the same action he had before, drawing from your chest outward- each of his fingers catching on the stiff peak. 

Your mouth opens in a muted cry. He never looks away, doesn't return to admire your chest in the way men do, doesn't stop to see what he’s doing. He traps your nipple between that oddly calloused thumb and forefinger. And just holds it there for a long moment.

A need has settled need inside, thick and aching. You don’t want it- and yet your legs hold close to his sides, hips trembling of their own accord. You squirm in his grasp which only makes him tug softly at your sensitive nipple. It draws a whine from you, the shocked inhale pulling at it again. You want him to stop, to get it over with, to say something; you want him to touch you. Instead he sits there, your nipple pinched so delicately- waiting.

“Michael,” your voice is hoarser than you expected, husky and close to breaking. “Please.”

The grasp in your hair tightens, you wince- and he pulls your head back. You gasp, sputter, stare up at your ceiling and see gray moving before you. His short hair rubs against your cheek- and you _scream_. Pain lances through your shoulder, his fingers rolling your nipple. You dig your fingernails into his back, scraping across what you can reach. 

His teeth dig deeper, and there’s nothing the hand on your chest can do to distract you. You hit weakly at his side- _he kills people- he fucking kills people-_ He could rip out your fucking throat. Leave you to bleed out across him, that’s how you’d help him. He was only here to drag out killing you and-

He lets go. You cry, hot breath panting over your shoulder, his tongue slipping out and dancing along your skin. Blood beads to the surface and he chases it, drinking it down before sinking his teeth in again. He huffs against you, his fingers leaving your chest to grab behind you. He digs five bruises into your ass and pulls you forward again- his hips lifting against your stomach.

He doesn’t moan. He pants and sighs and huffs, but utters no vocalization as he grinds against your stomach, bites into your neck, just below your ear. You tremble and hang on for dear life, clinging to Michael's broad shoulders. When you cup the back of his head, he nips your chin, almost purring. He pulls back long enough to admire the art he’s made of your skin; he’s half-lidded, his lips parted- and the silver-white of his beard shines crimson. His grasp on your hair adjusts and he’s attacking the other side of your neck. Teeth scrape down your throat, before he bites just below your clavicle. 

His hips roll against you again and you thank the small mercies, that you don’t have to look at his cock with your head wrenched so far back. You wouldn’t be able to handle it- because despite the agony his mouth brings you, the warmth between your legs lingers. His cock presses against you and you can _feel_ him, feel the size of him so close to where you truly need it. Your body just thinks he’s rough- that he likes to leave marks. The thought alone has your thighs clenching together again; you’ll be covered in bruises and bite marks well above the collar to even modest sweaters. He _is_ marking you. 

You tremble and fight the urge to slip your hand between your bodies to give yourself some relief. 

All at once, he stops. The rolls of his hips cease- and you hate how much of the motion between you had been your own doing, your own futile attempt to find stimulation where there was none. His breath is hot on your neck as he turns and gives a nip- dragging a thin stretch of skin between his teeth as he pulls away.

He stops panting before he even comes back into view. Aside from the pink to his cheeks, the swelling of his lips, and the empty black void of his pupils, it would be hard to tell what he’d been doing. The scarlet stain across his mouth is more telling. His hand in your hair loosens and you peek down. The damage itself is too high, but the thin rivulets of diluted blood and saliva pooling just behind your clavicles, the errant brushes and smears from his beard- not unlike a painter’s- tell you enough.

He could’ve ripped your throat out. The hand leaves your ass- and you’re aware of just how hard he’d been holding you. Michael’s fingers dance along the long expanse of your throat, tracing each sensitive spot he’d left in his wake. Admiring his work.

His hands leave and grab the backs of your thighs. You startle, grab at his shoulders again just in time for him to lift you. He stands, seemingly unbothered by your weight, and sets you down on your feet. Blood rushes in- and you weren’t even aware your legs had fallen asleep. He lets go, and without his support you sink back onto the edge of the mattress. 

He’s nude. The idea comes unbidden and finally, _finally_ you can press your thighs together, seek rudimentary stimulation to relieve the ache. You can’t imagine what he wants- he could’ve cum how he was before, biting at you and thrusting against your stomach. But he looks down at you- if there’s any clues to his thoughts, you can’t piece them together through the heavy fog of pain and fear and arousal. He’s nude, and his fingers catch the dark hair of the mask still set on the bed- and stalks out of your bedroom.

You’d never realized just how quiet he could be. 

It takes a moment to process. Michael has left you, hard and unfinished (and so were you, but you… couldn’t). And he was hard, so very hard and you _want._ You look to your shirt- and find a cooling wet spot smeared just below your navel. Had he been close, or was he simply that eager? Both options have your thighs shaking, one traitorous hand slipping between to press against yourself. 

You needed to calm down. You needed to calm down so, so much because you can’t do this. He wasn’t killing you, for whatever reason- which was apparently something more complicated than needing something to fuck. But your attraction to him is so… broken. So wrong and taboo and god, you could see the coldness in his eyes (when you can even see his eyes). He’s evil. And you want to feel his fingers probing inside you- they’d get so _deep_ , they’d absolutely _fill_ you with how big they are- instead of just using you as leverage against his dick.

You grind the heel of your palm against your clit. You’d get yourself off later. Not now. Not with him. 

The door opens again. You pull your hand free.

His face is gone, as is his body. 

You blink and stare into the empty eyeholes of the mask once more. His head is tipped slightly downward and you suspect he saw what you had been doing. His coveralls are wrinkled, but mostly clean. He crosses the room in easy, measured strides. Heat radiates off him. The dryer had gone off. 

His left hand catches under your chin- just as he had done before. You expect him to tilt your face up to look at him, but instead find panic in your veins as he closes his hand around your throat. It’s not a threat- it’s a _reminder._ You work with him, let Michael push you down on the bed, only half laying on it- everything below your thighs hanging over the edge. 

He stands over you, straddles you across your stomach, and presses one knee to the mattress- over your forearm. He adjusts and traps your other arm in the same way. You lie very still, staring up into the cracked, expressionless latex. Even holding you so close and letting you see his face so intimately, did he really prefer the mask? You guess he was done with his mouth.

He holds you still with his hand pinned to your neck. With the right- 

He pulls the zipper down again. He withdraws himself, and you have no choice but to look with him just above you. Michael is already a large man, and his cock is scaled to proportion. With him above you, he wraps his fingers around the shaft, stroking himself in one long, tight stroke. Blood pushes to the tip, darkening into a full red, a shiny drop of precum beading. You whimper, head hurting from how tight your brow knits together. 

Your arms are trapped at your sides, just under the backs of his thighs. You can't even push him away. A squeeze against your jugular reminds you to keep your eyes open. You focus on his mask, on the deep-set pain of your shoulders and neck, agitated by his grasp.

“Michael.” His fingers tighten- a nail scratching at a new sore spot has you wincing. He pulls faster, the rasping sound of skin on skin so close. Pants come quickly under the mask- and you want to see his face again. It’s all wrong. You shouldn’t want to see those cold, empty eyes or the blood lingering in his beard- what did he look like now? Would his gaze be clouded and far off, does he bite his lips? 

It’s hard to breathe with his weight on your ribs. You have just enough range to press your fingers between your legs. The need doesn’t abate- burning hot under your touch. It should be him, should be his rough, exploratory touch. Michael’s hand twists under the head- and his legs twitch. A noise muffled under the mask-

His cock twitches- the hand at your throat tightens again. You pinch your eyes closed.

Your throat burns and warmth splashes over your chest, something hits your chin. Air whistles through the nose holes of the mask, something wet slides along the side of your throat. Your bite wounds sting, set alight by- by-

You dare to open your eyes again. His hand slides smooth across his cock, slick and shiny with cum, more still leaking from the tip. Through it all, he doesn’t stop, hips rocking into his palm. Milky splatter sits between your breasts and higher, beyond where you can see. It cools quickly, turning tacky and strange against your skin, stinging harshly. 

Michael sighs, long and low, and finally his wrist slows and stops. His chest heaves, the mask tilts back and you can see just a touch more of his neck as it rides up. The burn around his neck has paled, and you watch how his neck moves as he breathes. 

You shiver, mouth hanging open as the heat of your skin dissipates. Your right breast is still out, the nipple pulled tight. Michael pants- and finally looks down to you. The mask is blank, betrays nothing of the face underneath- and it sweeps over your face. You feel the tears caught at your lashes, the blush heavy on your cheeks- and who knows what he’s done to your neck. Blood and spit and cum drying on your skin. 

HIs hand loosens finally, the corners of your vision returning in waves. On your belly, just past the end of your sternum, his cock softens and smears across your skin. You feel disgusting- and you need to take care of your neck. Fuck, they were going to get infected- Michael’s incessant lapping and sucking had surely made you sick, if his cum settling over your neck hadn’t. And that was very quickly becoming itchy and uncomfortable, you needed to clean up so badly. 

You pull at your arms, just trying to get Michael’s attention so he’d move on. He’d bitten and played with you, even finished himself on you- he had to be done now. You’d fulfilled your part.

The mask stared down at you, so gently canted off to his right side. His chest still heaves in deep, slow breaths. His fingers trace across your skin, reverent and silent, the hand at your neck making you wince as he touches something sensitive. 

You try shifting again, and this time tap at his butt. You just needed him off- “I need to clean up.” You say, voice harsh and strange in your throat. 

He still doesn’t move. And to think you were sure he was past this belligerently uncooperative stage and onto something at least a little more engaging than his unresponsive staring. You move, twisting until your arm begins to slide under you- even though it makes you arch up against him, you free one arm. With the extra space, the other arm comes out easier. 

You raise your hands to inspect the damage at your throat- he’s fast. The shape before you catches your wrists, curls forward over you to push them into the bed. His grip is painfully tight, huge hands squeezing the delicate bones of your wrists. His breathing is slow and steady again, the darkness behind the mask too heavy to understand what he wants from you. 

He squeezes until you’re gritting your teeth, lashing under his weight, tossing your head back and forth- and above you, the latex creaks as he tips his head. You blink away tears, real distress taking root deep inside. There’s a hot moment where you think he won’t stop, that’s all he needed after all. He'll snap your wrists and then your neck. And as your eyes begin to widen, your jaw going slack, the first inhale for a scream catching in your chest-

His grasp loosens again. Barely holding on, the mask swivels to the other side. He presses your wrists to the bed once more- and you take the hint. When he lets go of your sore wrists entirely, you don’t move. Michael tucks his cock away, not bothering to clean up at all. He hovers there, still half-sitting on your stomach, the bed dipped under his one knee on the bed. 

You stare up at him. The angle only emphasizes his height, the power he holds over you- physical or otherwise. The heat still has not left your pants, despite the real pain that lingers in your wrists and neck. It’s hardly different than him almost choking you out the second day he was here, you remind yourself. 

You hate what he does to you, you hate yourself. Fear and arousal and pain leave you dazed and all you can do is fixate on how tall he is, the width of his shoulders, the scars that hide beneath thick, blue cloth. You wish he was anyone else and more than anything in the world you wish he would touch you. 

Instead you’re stuck, hips pinned under his, covered in his cum. He steps back, slides off the bed, still looking down at his handiwork. The need inside you feels monumental, a sickly slickness slipping into your underwear. _touch me_ you want to scream. If he just _did_ it, without you having to focus on your useless conflict-

If you could just know what it was like,

Hands settle at your hips, warm and slow and oddly delicate. Hope burns inside you and yet-

Michael does not strike you as particularly _giving_. Unless he could get hard again, doubt overtook your mind. For good reason. His hands turn hard- but not malicious. He holds you- and hefts you up into his arms. You squeal in surprise, your arms coming around Michael’s neck again as he rounds the corner of your bed, and supporting your weight with only one arm, peels back the covers to your messy bed. 

You tremble, unsure. He was comfortable jerking off onto you while sitting above you, but wants you _in_ bed? He sits with you still tucked to his chest- and scoots into your bed. He lies down flat on his back, fully dressed in his coveralls and mask, and pulls you, still curled onto one side, against his chest. He reaches with one hand and drags the blankets back up, awkwardly pooled around you.

And then, he just lies there. His breathing even and slow, and you can’t tell if he looks to the ceiling or to you. You frown, more confused than anything. Your skin is still sticky, things you don’t want to think about flaking off each time you turned your head. And worse, the liquid need rooted deep inside still lurks- and you can’t, just can’t, deal with it here. You push against him to sit up- and huge hands settle on your lower back, just above your hips. 

His fingers- asymmetrical, it’s so strange- press into your skin, sliding just under your thin shirt. He says nothing, does not move in any other way. You lick your lips and press your luck. You push back further, nearly making it upright-

Before his hands are vices around you, forcing you back down with unquestionable authority. 

“Michael,” You complain, but only get the pointed flexing of his hands in response. You sigh- and shift on him. Pain sinks around his fingertips and you can nearly feel his eyes narrowing. “At least let me move? Your hip is biting into my side…” 

A long moment passes, before he sighs, a puff of warm air sliding under the mask. His hands relax again. You resettle over him, settling onto your stomach- if he wanted you on top of him for the night, it was your best bet for sleeping soundly. You end up almost straddling one thigh, with your left leg between his- but he’s too tall and you settle with your head just below the white latex of the masks’ chin. 

You want to take a bath. And yet… your ear presses against his chest. Warmth radiates through his clothing into you. His heart is strong, steady- an endless march song that’s all too easy to get lost in. His palms are nearly burning against your skin, and yet without the dangerous threat to them, there’s something else. 

He kills people. But he won’t kill you. The train of thought alone makes alarms ring in your skull. There’s a tenderness- or at least as tender as Michael Myers can seemingly manage for as emotionally disconnected as he is. Or was that all you projecting onto him? There had to be something genuine inside him. He’d _come back._ Maybe... you were just useful.

You close your eyes and count his heartbeats, the rise of his chest, the soft, muffled noise of his exhale. He is a mystery, and yet inside him his heart beats on like everyone else. Rhythmic and continuous, lulling you down into the easy hold of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are all enjoying your winter holidays! Next update is 12/24 and boy do I have an early Christmas present.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Michael doesn’t want you to do something, you don’t do it. And he does not want you to leave today- he doesn’t want you to leave him _at all_ considering his needy following you. You feel your eyebrows come in tight as you consider- was this about last night? It had to be, he wasn’t doing this before. 
> 
> Your lips part, you inhale through your mouth. The thought is as intoxicating as it is scary; something changed last night- he’d finished in your underwear, had played with your breasts and let you leave. Something about actually doing anything with you must’ve started this. You can feel the flush in your cheeks.

It’s warm when you wake. November has somehow been left behind for a heat more fitting of July. Sweat gathers on the back of your neck, the small of your back. You want to kick the blankets off, to strip off your clothing and let the fan cool you- only to have large, so very warm hands find the skin of your sides. Deliriousness is snapped from you, every nerve firing in sync, adrenaline flooding- _Who?_

And the hands press you down, firm, but not unkind. 

You blink, your head rushes to fill in the blanks. That’s right. He’d shown up in the middle of the night the last times he’d stayed with you- you almost expected the inverse; now that you’d invited him to your room, he should’ve left and finally enjoyed your guest bedroom. He’d stayed. He wants you to stay. You smile softly, letting your eyes close again. There _is_ something here. 

At some point in the night, you’d wrapped your arms around him. It should be distressing, but with the solid, warm touch under your shirt, you can’t complain. Your hands curl under his shoulders, forearms pressed close to his sides. More than that, the rest of you _hasn’t_ moved very much- at least as far as you can tell. You’re still chest-to-chest with a murderer- who is very, very cozy. 

You should be panicking, shouldn’t you? He’s not exactly _safe…_ But you’re too comfortable, too actually blissfully happy under your blankets, far away from the expectations of the real world, to care much what you _should_ do. 

You lie like that, drifting in and out of a light doze- listening to his heart beat under your cheek and breathing as the sunlight begins to fill your room. Other than the hands at your back, Michael makes no attempt to truly hold you or show any affection, if this was supposed to be affectionate in the first place. He certainly felt something unusual for you, he still has not killed you, but perhaps him holding you down and refusing to let you leave was not actually-

Your heart constricts. 

It was _curiosity,_ that’s all. He’s been alone and isolated for five decades, it was _need_ \- the physical need for touch and human compassion and absolutely not the soft, delicate thing you felt deep inside your rib cage, was not the anger and concern that lingers when you bandage him. Your fingers tremble, twitching and scraping against the thick fabric of his coveralls. There was no label to capture the strange and tumultuous feelings Michael brings out in you. You doubt he would.

Full awakeness returns, and you’re acutely certain of Michael’s alertness. There’s no drowsiness about him, no sleep-addled unconscious movement or snoring or half-dreaming cuddling. You lift your chin and peer at his mask, find only the darkened eyeholes. How long has he been awake? If you haven’t moved at all, he definitely has not either considering you’re almost entirely on top of him- he must’ve been keeping you there all night.

Why? That’s the question it always comes back to. Why not kill you? Why come back? Why stay here? 

He’s unknowable, completely inaccessible, even without his mask. But masked, now, you may as well have laid with a mannequin. All humanity is distant and far off, any trace of emotion hidden under one more layer of protection. You search the blackness of his eyeholes. You want to know how he thinks, why he does what he does, but at this point you’d settle for just _what_ he thinks. 

You press against the mattress and push yourself up- his hands remain flat on your back, but offer no resistance. You still speak anyway, “I need to get up.” There’s no acknowledgement from him, but you crawl off him without being dragged back. 

You take a moment to stretch; having been apparently corralled into the same position all night leaves your back aching oddly. You pretend not to feel the eyes between your shoulder blades and silently adjust the thin tank top from how it had slipped down your shoulders. Last night’s… events have left your clothes soiled and uncomfortably sticky-

Sticky. You grimace and touch your neck- pain sparks on your skin. It’s hot and tender and with only the slightest exploring you find the first of what you assume is many, many scabs in the shapes of Michael’s teeth and thin flakes of _something_ that fall away at the first brush of your fingertip. You don’t wait for Michael’s permission to get up and make your way to the bathroom mirror. 

The bed creaks behind you, footsteps echo yours. 

The mirror reveals the damage left from Michael’s attention. Your whole neck is bruised. Between his choking and his biting, your skin has turned royal and maroon, isolated spots bright red with scabs and dried blood. The softer, playful nip to your chin was still hard enough to elicit a half-circle just beyond the corner of your mouth. But where he bit you first, where he’d sunk his teeth into you and you’d feared he would rip your throat out, is raised and glowing. You touch it, and trace the shapes of incisors and cuspids, perfectly recreated as outlines in your skin. It still stings and you can feel the deep-set wound he’s made. 

And on top of it all was a peculiar film of clear-white streaked across your chest and neck. An unsettling mix of nausea and arousal settles deep inside. 

The white mask appears behind over your shoulder and you look to him. He did this to you. He _does_ this to people- does _worse_ to people. Does he- you can’t hide the revulsion- does he attack people _like that?_ You’d never really researched his crimes before you’d met him, but you didn’t think… 

You don’t think he’d really have _time_ to… do much. And kill so many people on the same night. You plead with him silently, but all you’re rewarded with is a slow tilt of his head, and a slower descent of the mask as his gaze trails from your face down to his handiwork in the mirror.

You glance at those empty black eyes again as you reach for a wash cloth. Today, he does not stop you. 

Cold water makes you hiss, but cools the heated skin. The evidence of his release wipes off easily, but you let the cool, damp cloth sit on your neck to help with the inflammation while you brush your teeth. _Still need to get him a toothbrush_.

Through it all, Michael does not move. He’s still crowded close to you in your little bathroom, but too far for you to feel his coveralls or warmth. The taste of mint replaces dryness and you spit, rinsing your mouth, then ringing out the wash cloth and wiping your face again. You should really shower. 

Would he let you?

Hunger pulls at you, but showering first would be easier. You seek out his gaze again. “Did you eat…” you hesitate, steer away from the reality of it. “while you were… gone?”

He does not reply for a long moment and you begin to worry. You’d hoped, perhaps in vain, that last night would have left him a little more amicable and then- you watch his shoulders shift, the slight movement of his mask. He nods, cooperative again. You don’t want to ask what. You nod as well, psyching yourself up and trust your instinct “Can you wait before I make breakfast? I want to shower.” 

And amazingly, he nods again. Relief loosens the tight muscles of your back. A genuine smile graces your lips in the mirror; you hope he can tell. From a stack on the counter, you grab two towels. You turn towards the shower- and find a blue wall. You can’t help but yelp and step back, peer up at the expressionless mask.

He’s not angry. You’re starting to get better at understanding what he wants and how he expresses it- and it's not anger that makes him block your door. If he didn’t want to allow your shower he would not let you, would’ve taken your arms in his huge hands. No, it’s… something else. 

He likes to surprise you, you think- or perhaps reiterate the power dynamic you had. Just something to make sure you know that he _could_ stop you. You touch his side and feel the shape of his ribs. You see nothing behind the mask. The barest pressure makes him sidestep, and you slip into your bathroom. Maybe it's just an excuse to have you touch him again. 

You turn the knob and let the water begin to heat, hanging the towel on the end of the curtain rod. You have your thumbs hooked into the hem of your pants before you realize a problem: breathing behind you. You lift your head and look over your shoulder; the blue wall has returned to your doorway. He’s not as close now, only lingering at the door frame- but he’s trapped you, blocking the door.

Steam begins to gather and you need to make a decision. You bite your lip. He’s already bitten and bruised you so damn hard… if he was going to keep creeping about your house and fighting his way into your most taboo fantasies, this was fairly low on the list of battles you’d hate yourself for not picking. 

You keep your back to him and begin with the tank top. He’d already seen you near shirtless last night, has already grabbed your breasts _twice_ \- this wasn’t much more than he’d already known. You could live with him knowing what your spine looked like. The air is cool and makes your nipples begin to harden, but the steam escaping from behind the shower curtains soothes them. It takes you a moment longer to prepare for the rest of it. 

His breathing- continuous and even, steady despite what he’s watching you do- is _calming_. You’re twisted in the head. You hold onto the hem of your pants- _fuck it-_ and take the elastic of your underwear in hand too. You push them both down in one movement. Cold air swirls around you as you step out of your clothes. You grab the shower curtain and enter the tub before you can hear if he has any sort of reaction.

You lift the pull on the faucet. It’s freezing; one flash of a second has you jolting under the spray. And the shock melts away as it heats up. Stress oozes from you, starting at your head where your hair flattens down around you, streaming water over your face. You breathe in deeply and feel the warmth settle deep inside. It’s meditative; everything beyond your thankfully nearly-opaque shower curtain has faded away into the pounding of water on ceramic. 

You knew he was still out there, of course. You close your eyes to spray and wipe at your neck again, trying to make sure the worst of it is gone for sure. The hot water makes the bites hurt again, bringing blood back to the surface in the bruises, but you can live with that for now. When you open your eyes again, the shadows through the curtain has changed. He’s stepped into the bathroom. 

You stiffen and wait. You don’t know what he’d do, why he’d let you begin to shower if he just wanted to interrupt you anyway. Heat urges your muscles to keep letting go, despite your senses on high alert, the little prey voice in your head repeating _he’s there, he’s here_

Minutes tick on. He doesn’t move. It should be all the more terrifying. And yet. 

You pop the top to your shampoo. It’s cool and slides over your scalp in a soothing way. You close your eyes and work it into your hair, dragging fingers through to release all the dead tangles trapped. Michael Myers is waiting outside your shower and somehow, there’s something other than fear taking root. The suffocating danger he exerts is far away and gone; you know the damage he can do if he wanted it. For now, he doesn’t. And for now, your shower is cozy and the feeling of grease leaving your hair and rendering it soft and fluffy again is near orgasmic. Days of stress and guilt come off in sheets- layers of grime shed under the hot spray.

You pour on body wash and inhale the floral scent. White cream sliding over your shoulders is becoming too commonplace. You follow it with face wash and massage the cleaner over your face with your eyes closed. 

And all the while, the shape behind the curtain does not move. He could really hurt you here… Was he guarding you? Could he see you through the curtain? You wish again you could know what makes him tick. Just knowing if you were _supposed_ to feel safe rather than losing your mind would go a long way. 

A coolness sneaks into the water. You rinse before it truly turns tepid. Fresh and clean, you turn off the water while you drip. You squeeze the worst of it from your hair, water cascading down your back. After a moment, the pull drops down, water spills from the faucet- and finally dies away. 

With the door open, the heat of your shower dissipates quickly. You retrieve one towel from the back and wrap it around yourself. It’s not quite large enough, leaving a visible gap where it should overlap. But it’s good enough. Holding the first towel in place with your elbows, you grab the second towel and pull it over your head. Again you squeeze the water free, and the towel dampens.

You curl your fingers around the edge of the curtain and pull it back. Cold air rushes around you, every inch of exposed skin erupts into the goosebumps, a shiver starting at your shoulders. And then, you shiver for a different reason. Your guest has not moved from his new position just outside your shower. You pull the towel around your body tighter and shift the gap so it’s over your side. 

The first creeping tendril of something more than hunger hangs in the air. You meet his gaze. “I have to get out now.” As you reach out to, again, ease him back and out of the bathroom, you wonder when you’ll realize you’re sticking your hand in the wolf’s mouth. But thus far he’d allowed it. And thus far when he did not like something, it didn’t particularly matter how close you were to him. 

With one hand still on his chest, you catch a blurry glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The open door had dispersed the steam, but still the surface was foggy- you wiped it clean with a fast swipe- only then did you truly look at your hands. 

The hot water had agitated the bruises, huge purple splotches erupting over your wrists where Michael had nearly crushed them; your neck is no better. The worst of it could’ve been covered by a large scarf, but now you can see long _finger marks_ all the way up to just below your ear, a half-circle on your chin lit up red where he’d bit you more playfully. Of course, playful in comparison to full bite that had broken skin and left you crying was not as playful as you’d prefer.

You were a mess. 

No wonder he wanted to see you. He did this to you. 

In the mirror, his hand raises- and lands on your neck. An inhale is caught in your chest as he traces one line of his hand from one side of your neck to the other. Your nerves misfire; your skin sings and screams at the touch, sore and delicate and refusing to forget how lightheaded you’d been under him before he could even choke you.

His hand falls away. You urge him further back, until you can finally escape the bathroom to make it to your dresser. 

You still had other problems. Michael is on a roll for being uncomfortably persistent when you wish he’d give you more space. When he’d lurked in your bedroom before, you simply didn’t change in front of him. But now… you’re soaking wet with only two towels to cover you. Even if it wouldn't be dreadfully uncomfortable for _multiple_ reasons, with the November chill seeping through the cabin’s walls, you’ll risk catching a cold. 

You’d rather not find out if Michael is a good caretaker. You doubt he is.

“You could wait outside.” You offer bleakly, but already know. No- He knows exactly what he’s doing. He stands, statuesque in your room, having followed you within two feet of your dresser. You aren’t even rewarded with a head tilt. He’s not going anywhere.

He keeps managing to ride the line between _uncomfortable_ and _dangerous_. Maybe you shouldn’t give him credit for not being as horrible as he possibly could be, but he’s already a murderer. You doubt it’s _decency_ that drives him to not assault you- in any manner- but it leaves that same constricting feeling around your chest.

 _Why doesn’t he kill you?_ You thumb at the corner of a towel. _If he only wants you for sex why not just_ take _it?_ He’s clearly fine with hurting you, with pushing past your boundaries in too many ways to count, but why not go all the way?

The question haunts you, but another wave of shivers forces your hand. You retrieve underwear first. You turn away, giving Michael the same view as he had as you undressed. The air is crisp, and you nearly stumble forcing each leg into the leg holes and pulling the fabric up. There’s no water to hide the catch in Michael’s breathing this time. 

The rest of your outfit is less important, but your dwindling clean clothes is an issue. You settle for long jeans that stick to your damp legs and a thick scoop-neck sweater that does little to hide the damage to your neck. It’s for the best- the skin there is inflamed and irritated now; a turtleneck would only make you want to scratch at it. 

You keep the towel on your head, blotting it again on your skull until your hair is only slightly damp. From there, you let the towel rest over your shoulders to catch any drips. 

You turn back, and find your statue exactly where you left him. 

You need to do laundry. That’s easy- just throw stuff in and then you can make breakfast with whatever is left in the kitchen. That makes you grimace. You need to run to the store again. You’d only gotten stuff for a few meals when he’d been here several days ago. Guilt and depression had minimized the damage you’d done to the pantry, but not entirely.

With the hamper _still_ in the laundry room, you grab whatever articles of clothing you can carry from the floor and where you’d dropped the pile of dirty clothes when he’d first arrived. Including the embarrassingly damp underwear from in front of the shower. You’ll pretend it was just from the shower and not Michael’s teasing or having to sleep with his thigh between your legs and yet so unsatisfyingly far away.

Only when you actually go to leave the room does he move to follow. Stiff steps that don’t quite align with yours down the hallway- stopping at the doorway to the laundry room again. You dump the clothes in the washer and measure out detergent. You need more of that, too. You need to make this shopping trip _today._ You could even pick up a razor for him; his beard was not too terribly unruly when you’d found him and you wonder what exactly he preferred to keep it at. If he even noticed.

Maybe you should make it an electric. 

With detergent and softener in, you close the drum and set the dial. The machine hums to life, turning the load and weighing it. You step over to the dryer- and find your once bloodied shirt on the floor. Must’ve fallen when Michael got his coveralls. You pick it up and turn it in your hands- 

It’s in surprisingly good shape; where fresh blood had smeared onto you is nearly invisible. If you hadn’t known where to look, you probably wouldn’t have noticed. You place it on top of your dryer for now, and turn back to the hallway. Time for real food, but first-

He stands, unimpressed with your domestic routines. “I’ll make food now,” You try to persuade him. Nothing. You sigh and wonder if this is the price you must pay for getting _two_ nods from him. His chest is warm and you feel the strong beat of his heart under your palm as you guide him away from the door. He’s big enough and the hallway is just tight enough that you have to slide chest to chest to get around him. He doesn’t seem to mind.

The kitchen is a mess. You’d be sheepish about the state of it if your guest were anyone else. Dishes from the last few days have piled up, half-eaten food left out in your sluggish, guilt-ridden existence. Could be much worse. A shadow stands beside the wide opening to the kitchen, but does not pursue you inside. Fine enough, you needed the space anyway.

The fridge is sparse. An unopened carton of eggs taunts you, but you push them aside. Truly breakfast materials are running low, so you look over into the pantry. Maybe you had pancake mix and syrup? Or oatmeal? Would he like that? A tall, unopened box pressed into a corner catches your eye. 

You pull it down, and look. On the front there’s a large bowl and spoon, little brown squares floating in perfectly white milk. It’s cereal, alright- but you had to recall why you even had this weird off-brand chocolate thing. 

One of the clerks at the local grocery store- she’d given it to you _quite a while ago._ You grimace and check the expiration date; in theory it would still be good for another few months.

They were pulling it from the shelves, making space for something else- they’d be off the inventory after midnight and they still had a pallet of them in the back. She gave you one, just because. The rest were split up among the associates- she’d winked as she smuggled an extra away from the pile and out to her car. The memory still draws a smile to your lips. Maybe you’ll see her again today.

You’d never actually gotten around to trying the cereal. You pop the top open and look; the plastic bag is still in impeccable shape- should still be good.

“How do you feel about cereal?” You ask your shadow- nearly forgetting to look at him in case of the ever elusive response. You get none this time, your shadow remaining half-hidden around the molding. He’s vocal about disliking things, you tell yourself. He must be alright with this then.

You pull open the bag- and the sweetness of chocolate fills your nose. It takes no time at all to retrieve two bowls, two spoons, and the half-empty gallon of milk from your fridge, now with little more than a quarter left. You walk both bowls out to the living room- you set one on the coffee table in front of where Michael had usually claimed, and the other on the side table next to your chair. 

He remains in the hallway- which is good, because you also grab the milk and cereal box and take them out to the living room. Michael said he’d eaten while he was… out. But you had a feeling it wasn’t exactly a _meal_ and probably more like snatching something from someone’s house after-

You scold yourself and redirect: the point is, he’s probably still hungry. Only when you are fully seated in your chair and flicking on the TV does Michael emerge from your hallway and take his place on the couch. 

You don’t put on the news. 

An education network plays children’s cartoons, and fuck it- it’ll be better for your mental health to watch Tom and Jerry than sit through another report about the ongoing investigation and manhunt. For the man in your living room. Staring at you. Hungry.

You blink at him. He sits, stiff and inhuman looking on your couch. Maybe one day you’d get over having Michael fucking Myers sitting in your house like that’s a normal thing that people have happen. You motion to the bowl, “Should eat before it get soggy.” 

He doesn’t look away. His piercing eyes are hidden somewhere in that deep darkness, but for now the mask does more than disguise himself; it’s protecting you. Seeing those eyes again would only make your stomach flip and clench until you were lost in him. The thought alone makes your heart flutter; you _want_ that. But you haven’t had real food in days, and even though this cereal is new and not your preferred one, that chocolate smells damn good on your empty stomach.

You look away from white latex and pick up your bowl. Already the brown of the chocolate has discolored the milk into a creamy milkshake-like color. You take the first bite. They’re actually not bad, very sweet and crunchy. The chocolate smell has nothing on the flavor- and you almost wonder if this isn’t just balls of chocolate. 

You focus on the TV and a fresh set of antics from the animals on screen, but relax and smile to yourself as Michael looks away from you and rolls up the bottom of his mask. You definitely would need to get him a razor; the silver of his beard has begun to puff out into something more than intentional scruff. 

The morning continues in silence. It’s more comforting than you’d like to have someone around, especially because since Michael had looked to the TV he has not looked back at you. His interest in most things is a hard to plan for _nonexistence,_ so this was a nice turn of events. You don't have to worry about the heavy, steely eyes on you this morning- instead, you find yourself taking his role. 

You watch the muscles in his jaw as he chews, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Each time his tongue peaks out to lick his lips, how his lips drag against the spoon. You’re as creepy as he is. 

The thought makes you look back to your bowl. You eat quickly before the last of the chocolate squares can become too soft. No, you’re not as creepy as him. You’re so much worse. He kills people and you make him breakfast. He shows up bloody and you bathe him.

Your body sags in the chair, your morning quickly deflating. You want to kick yourself; you were having a good day, despite… everything about your circumstances. You were not going to let the annoying little voice in your head get you down- no matter how cruelly right it was. 

You sneak another peak at Michael; he hasn’t noticed your turmoil, or is pretending not to. Or he just doesn’t care. All were surely viable- but from his continued invisible stare at the screen, you’d like to believe it was the first option. You drink the milk, now looking like a true chocolate milk; despite the appearance, it’s not as sweet as you expected. 

You finish the bowl and set it aside, content to just look between Tom- now stepping on a rake- and Michael. A thought occurs- and nearly has you crying. Michael was... how old when he was locked away the first time? Six? No wonder he was enraptured with the show. And… Tom and Jerry was certainly old enough- had he seen it before? If one of the really old episodes came on, would he remember it? 

How much access to TV had he had in the years he was gone, and what would the staff even let play? Maybe if the internet cooperates you could pirate some modern cartoons for him, too. The thought of Michael watching some of the pastel-colored shows that so continuously emphasized softness and kindness and _compassion_ made you smile. Maybe he’d prefer shows like Tom and Jerry- comical, mindless cartoon violence where peace was so very tenuous. 

Michael finishes his bowl of cereal. He holds it for a long moment- before placing it on the coffee table and reaching for the box. You smile. The cardboard is tiny in his hands, his pouring technique so obviously underused as the squares rush out. Only three manage to escape the bowl, but he has no compunction about picking them up from the table and dropping them back in with the rest. He pours the milk- and as uncivilized as he is, leaves the cap off the jug.

There’s hardly any left now and you don’t particularly feel like correcting him, so you leave it be. 

It’s cathartic. The silly, over the top sound effects from the speakers- an obnoxiously persistent cat doomed to fail to Jerry’s protagonists’ power. And yet, at the end of the segment, the world would reset itself and spin on, ready for another set of TNT in a pie. You watch and thinking of nothing at all. 

Even during the commercials, for the first time in days, you find the emptiness of your head soothing instead of overwhelming. You float easily between superficial thoughts and meaningless ideas, the muffled sound of Michael crunching away. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the same knock at your door that had shaken the previous peace. Time drags on in the more pleasant way- and you watch as he mimics how you drank the milk from your bowl. 

A murderer should not be so endearing. 

The only distraction came in the form of a distant musical jingle from the laundry machine. You blink out of the stupor, and stand. With Michael’s mask rolled back down, you figured he was done, and put the cap on the milk, and took the dishes and milk back to the kitchen. Aside from the milk which you put back in the fridge, you would have to clean up later.

You head down the hallway to the laundry room. You pop the front of your washing machine and move handfuls of damp, heavy, clothing into the dryer. You’re cleaning the lint trap when you realize you’re not alone. He stands in the doorway again, cartoons still playing far off. You lift one eyebrow and wonder why he felt the need to follow you- but accept it. He’s done weirder; as far as you can tell, he’s not aroused, so that’s a huge step up.

You move on, turning the dryer on and having to repeat the same dance as earlier. He backs off at the touch, and lets you pass with the same awkward side step that brushes your bodies together. And as you pass by, you can feel a tenseness. It makes you stop in the narrow hallway and look back to him. You’d been having such a nice time, what’s he so worked up about? 

“Oh!” Your outcry seemed to startle him- his shoulders drawing even tighter. “Your bandages!” Stupid, stupid- you had even told yourself to check them in the morning. You head back to your room to grab the medkit. He follows close behind, and you shoo him towards the living room. “Go sit down, I’ll be out in a second.” 

But as you enter your room, you know he’s dedicated to following you today. The kit is still at the foot of the bed, open and messy- and you curse at yourself. You kneel to pick it up- and look to Michael’s feet. You look up to him from the floor and frown sharply, point to his wrapped ankle. “You need to go sit.” 

He doesn’t. You should’ve at least predicted that much, it doesn’t make you want to smack him any less. If only he could’ve worked with you in a more productive, normal way. You sigh- at least this time he’s not just lurking in your doorway. You step around him and lead him back out into the living room. As you set up, you watch him walk; he’s not limping. You knew his ankle was sprained- maybe the bastard really just doesn’t feel pain.

He sits obediently, and your routine of undressing him is just that much easier. The zipper pulls easily. You start with his gunshot wound. You peel the bandage away- and find another clear-pink stain pressed to the gauze. You think that’s still normal for a really serious wound- but god do you wish you could get a doctor to look at him…. You know he won’t. Even if you could find a doctor who wouldn’t run screaming. You apply a fresh bandage and, annoyingly, tell yourself to check it before you sleep tonight. 

You move to the other arm. The wound that had been bleeding last night is scabbed fully now. It’s still an ugly wound, the skin is raised and warped, almost wrinkling across the edges. You swipe your thumb across the thick red clump. Here on his bicep- that has the same softness wrapped over deep, dense muscle, the damage is shocking. There’s no drainage or discoloration, so for as torturous as the injury looks, there’s no need to worry as far as you can tell.

You move down that arm, carefully extracting him from the sleeve to access his hand. Despite the severity of the wound- he’d lost the majority of two fingers!- the skin there is closing quickly. The bandages are clean, so you replace them and tell yourself you won’t have to check them until tomorrow. Around the white squares, the burns are lightening. Pink, shiny, raw flesh giving way to pale scars. It’s good- you touch his hand, inspecting it and turning it over, looking to his palm. You trace your finger along the thin crease that starts just between his pointer and middle finger, down out to the side of his palm.

But you still had one last wound to inspect. You clear your throat and leave his hand, moving instead uncomfortably close to his groin. The older wound you’d seen yesterday is just below his navel, messed with the curly gray hair there, and long and thin, hooked at the end where whatever had cut him had jerked at an angle. It’s long since closed, the scab itself is dark and aged, paling around the edges. 

And it’s yellow. You touch his skin and can’t hide your worry. The skin around the wound is burning hot with fever, a crystal-like remnant of previous drainage still clinging to the edges of his scab and hair. “Fuck, Michael…” You ignore the twitch the brings to his legs, and focus on the infection before you. Was there anything you could even do? Short of getting antibiotics, you were just have to wait this out- but how bad was it? 

You dig through the little red bag to pull out an electronic thermometer. Michael is already putting his arm back through the sleeve, pulling the zipper up. 

“I need to take your temperature.” You offer the little plastic device. He sits, steadfast. “It’ll only take a second, please?” 

There’s a peculiar dip to the mask. It’s not a shake, so you try again. “Michael, the cut on your stomach looks infected, I need to know if you have a fever.” 

You move towards him, aiming for his still-exposed chest. hoping your touch would calm him into compliance- as it does with getting him to step out of the way. His hand catches your already bruised wrists. You hiss, but only from the existing injury- in fact, his grasp is looser than usual. It’s still firm, a threat lingering under his fingertips. You whine, seek out his eyes. “Michael, please…” If only you could make him understand- “You could get really sick.” 

He presses his fingers in. Pain radiates up your arm and you whine- “Okay, okay.” 

He releases you in an instant, hand returning to their previous task. The zipper clicks softly as he pulls it up all the way, Your fingers prod experimentally at your wrist, rubbing the skin and urging the pain to abate. He’d get sick. You have to try again. “What if I just feel your forehead?” 

He does not move, he’s returned to his very neutral position upright on the couch. The stinging still lingering in your wrist makes you think twice about reaching for him again. You sigh. _He’s tough,_ you tell yourself as you put the thermometer away, _he can handle himself._

And that was very true, on both accounts. He’d done so much damage, taken so much damage and just kept going. He’d done it all half-blind. He was fine without you. At this point you would not be surprised if he _is_ immortal- looking at him, you felt sure he’d be going on long after you were gone.

Which may still be soon. 

You zip up the first aid kit and set it aside. The television has switched off Tom and Jerry and onto something more recent- but clearly was not new. Michael’s mask tilts at the intro- flashier and brighter than Tom and Jerry’s. But as it plays, his head returns upright. It must be good enough, because his attention does not return to you as you sit, exhausted in your chair.

Instead, you turn to your phone- plugged in on the end table. You spend the first few minutes moving through articles on infection is an anxious haze. Getting him to stay in bed to recover would be damn near impossible, but you could at least prepare food ahead, especially if you went to the store today. You never did make that soup- but you still had everything for it. You’d had just enough energy- or perhaps, were already on emotional autopilot when you’d dropped all the cut potatoes into a tupperware and thrown them into the fridge.

With at least the beginnings of a game plan, you move away from google and to social media. You don’t stay long. In such a small town, you follow some of your neighbors- and their posts are littered with frightened posts, angry at the local police, advising others on how to be safe. You try to ignore it- until someone has reposted something from the state police- a wanted poster. 

It’s not a good rendition; clearly having been a digital picture that got printed, copied at an angle, then scanned online again. But the likeness is there; an older man with thinning, silver hair and stubble, a severe, impartial face, and the curved scar across his eye. Even with the distorted contrast, you can pick out the intensity of his gaze and the milky unseeing iris of his left eye. It feels wrong. Like you’re committing some sort of betrayal just by looking at his face- as poor a recreation as it is- without his permission. 

You scroll down, and the poster includes a description of the mask he wears now: white latex of a man’s face, brown synthetic hair tied into the scalp. Very aged, cracked. 

The town was on high alert; Michael’s little spree had drawn the attention squarely away from Haddonfield and into your backyard. The cops would be back. 

The thought echoes: the cops would be back for you. For Michael. 

You back out of the app- back to google. You tap the search bar and type it out: _Michael Myers._ You look to the man on your couch. He stares at the screen in front of him, the mask reflects green from something on the television. You search. 

The first result is Wikipedia, and under the big blue link is a preview: _Michael Myers (born October 19, 1957) is an American spree killer…_ You look away. It’s like an invasion of his privacy. Not that he respects yours. And yet, you swipe your finger and close the tab. Even disregarding the privacy… you don’t know if you can handle the truth of it all. You know who he is, you’ve seen the wounds and scars he carries and the blood in his suit that was not his own. He kills people. 

You don’t need a list of the dead. Your conscience is already heavy enough with the unnamed, unnumbered dead in your own damn town. Was his Wikipedia page already updated with that? A new section on his page dedicated to his escape and new string of murders. Would you be on there too one day? Would you get your own page or would you be relegated to nothing more than a footnote in the Myers biography?

You lock your phone, put it face down on the end table again. Michael is oblivious to it all as far as you can tell. Your stomach churns and you stand. His eyes are on you instantaneously, all attention to your television dropped. 

“I’m going to start dinner and let it sit, then go out and get some stuff. Is there anything you need?”

Michael stands, his back stiff- he dominates the room, suffocating the words in your throat. He doesn’t have to speak, you can already see the absolute in his posture. You will not be leaving this house. He’s well enough to stop you this time. 

You wilt, but keep trying, “You need bandages… I have to stock up.” 

He steps towards you, trapping you between himself and the chair behind you. Your neck pinches as you look up to see him, towering over you as he is. You can’t understand it- why is he so unpleasant today? You want so badly to puff up your chest and straighten your shoulders to show him you’re serious, you _need_ this, but you can’t. 

When Michael doesn’t want you to do something, you don’t do it. And he does not want you to leave today- he doesn’t want you to leave him _at all_ considering his needy following you. You feel your eyebrows come in tight as you consider- was this about last night? It had to be, he wasn’t doing this before. 

Your lips part, you inhale through your mouth. The thought is as intoxicating as it is scary; something changed last night- he’d finished in your underwear, had played with your breasts and let you leave. Something about actually doing anything with you must’ve started this. You can feel the flush in your cheeks.

Above you, his head tips off to his right. He’d read the change of expression- but did he know what you felt? Did he even know that he himself was doing this? 

At this range, you barely have to move to touch his hip, hardly more than your fingertips brushing against his coveralls. “Okay.” You concede and rub the fabric with your thumb. “I’ll stay in today.” 

You push the chair back enough to be able to slip by him. You’d hoped he’d return to sitting on the couch and resting his ankle, but he’s just as much of a stubborn bastard as you expect. You cross the threshold into the kitchen and are acutely aware that he’s lingering in the entryway again. A glance reveals he’s even standing in the same place, halfway hidden behind the molding. 

You want to scold him so badly, to tell him to go sit, please, because you’re only hurting yourself more by being up- but you’ve already gotten a taste of his take on compromise. You plead with him silently, begging the empty holes of his mask to reconsider- and when he does nothing but breathe slowly in and out, you move on.

The longer the soup could sit, the better it would be. You take out the already cut potatoes and inspect them- and deem them to still be good enough to boil. You peel and chop the remaining tubers and ignore the way your hand shakes when you withdraw a knife from the block. You do not look at the extra empty slot.

When you’re done, you pull out a large pot, fill it with water and stock and your potatoes, and set it on high. On another burner you put a skillet down, then turn back to your fridge. 

This was the first time you’ve really cooked for him. Eggs and toast don’t count, and everything else you’ve scavenged from your pantry. You hope he’s more accepting of your cooking than he is of your independence. 

From the bottom drawer, you find your cut of chuck beef. Still sealed, it’s in perfect condition. With your audience of one, you cut the meat quickly- already ready for his gaze to leave you. It doesn’t. It’s fine. All you have to do is brown the beef, cut onions and carrots, and leave it all to boil for a while. 

It goes much slower with him watching you. Every time the knife clicks against the cutting board, you think of him standing over your shoulder the last time- and though you wish he’d part your company, you’re at least thankful he’s staying as far back as he is. If he tried that again… you don’t know what you’d do. 

The smell of cooking meat fills your kitchen, and even so soon after breakfast, your mouth waters. It’ll be a simple dinner, but it should be good. You really hope it’s good. 

He stays the whole time. You scrape the last of the carrots in- the entire bag you’d picked up, doubling the vegetables in the recipe for Michael’s already substantial appetite. You give the pot a quick stir before putting the lid on and checking the time. In a while you’d come stir it again and check it.

You move on to the much needed cleaning. Although you were fairly sure Michael did not give a single fuck about the state of your kitchen or the rest of your house- it has hard, actually, to think of things he did care about- the act of cleaning took your mind off things. It’s mindless, lets you stare out the window over your sink and out into the thin trees and piles of red-orange-brown leaves with the soothing sound of water running. 

You don’t know how long it takes, but you can hear a new theme song playing in the living room before you’re done. You take your time with the knife- some forbidden part of your brain all too aware of the eyes on you and his fixation with knives. You clean it and rinse it, watching how the stream flattens and cascades off the blade. You wonder- and hate yourself- what would it look like with blood? What was it that Michael saw?

You set it in the drying rack and push the thought from your mind. You don’t have to look to know he’s still there, but you do anyway. But you do notice- his weight has shifted, like he’s leaning out from behind the molding. You look around the corner, his mask turning to watch- and your face falls. His weight is on his left foot, the right one lifted slightly with only his toes touching the hardwood.

There’s no use pleading with him. You give the pot another stir before turning back to him and motioning him towards the living room. He doesn’t move without you. This dance is becoming tiresome- you walk back into the room and take your same chair. He follows- and this time you can see how he’s favoring his left leg. He sits, and not for the first time, you wish he’d just be more forthcoming if he’s in pain. 

You shoot up again- and point a finger at him, demanding that just for once he’d listen to you. “Stay there.” 

You nearly sprint back to the kitchen and open your freezer. Under your ice maker, there’s a long, blue item, gently sagging. You take it- squish it to make sure it’s still flexible- and wrap it in a spare ratty kitchen towel. You wish you were surprised that Michael was already to his feet again. The mask tilts suspiciously at your hands.

You move next to the couch and take the same throw pillow that he’d bloodied when you first found him. “Sit.” 

You can _feel_ the narrowing of his eyes. Seems he’s getting tired of this, too. He complies. He’s already been uncooperative enough today, you don’t bother asking. You put the pillow on the coffee table and lift his leg to set it on the pillow. You feel the muscle of his calf tighten as you touch him, but does not resist you. Ideally you’d get him to lay down so his ankle could be higher than his heart, but you figure this is hopefully good enough. 

And with his leg elevated, you lay the ice pack across his ankle. “That’s going to be on and off every twenty minutes. If it starts to hurt, please tell me? Or just move it yourself.” You wait- at least trying to make sure he understands, and to your surprise, the mask dips once in a nod. This time you can’t help the smile that spreads. 

You retake your seat, hopefully for a bit longer this time. 

You cycle his ice pack a few times and stir the soup until the potatoes have become soft and edible. It smells delicious, but you know the longer it sits the better it’ll taste. So you go back to the living room and ask, “Are you hungry again yet?”

And Michael makes a noise. Just one, very softly.

You heart leaps in your chest, eyes growing wide, your mouth parting in sudden shock and- 

did he speak and you _missed it?_ Was it a groan of pain? You go to him- suddenly frantic if it’s the latter. He was shot and stabbed and lost two fingers without a whimper, if something had him in pain now-

The mask does not move, tipped slightly back and into the couch cushion. The noise comes again, still soft. But this close, you can tell what it is: a _snore._ So quiet you’d nearly missed it, but so close to him you can see through his eyeholes: the slight line of his eyelashes, lowered and still on his cheeks. 

Michael Myers is asleep on your couch, with tiny snores escaping from his mask.

He hasn’t passed out at all the whole time he’s been here… Your window of opportunity is limited. As stealthily as you can, you press the backs of your fingers to the small exposed part of his chest, just below the mask. As you suspected: his skin is hot to the touch. You need to get to the store.

It’s only in the early afternoon, but already the autumn weather brought encroaching darkness. You could run out, get food and bandages for him, even a toothbrush. Some medication to keep his fever down. Probably make it back before he even wakes up… you step away and go to get a scarf. It’s cold out, but more importantly, your neck is a bruised mess. More than just an embarrassing hickey, someone would either stop you or just call the cops…

In your bathroom mirror you try to cover up the nips he’s dressed your chin with, with mixed success. At least those you could explain away as love bites. You look nearly presentable, even kind of nice with your necessary accessory. 

You grab your keys and phone, and take one extra moment to look at Michael and make sure. He’s breathing and still out cold, not having moved at all. You can do it- in and out, real fast. Before he knows.

You leave and lock the door behind you, shuffling out to your car. The engine turns over, and as the headlights illuminate your house, you watch your windows carefully in case a shadow had appeared. Nothing. Your house was quiet, untouched, the light from the television filtered through curtains but otherwise dead. 

You pull away.

You move through the grocery store with lightning speed, too aware of your limited time window. If you were lucky, illness would knock him out for a reasonable time, but considering this was the first time you’d seen him _sleep_ and not fucking _unconscious_ you had doubts. Not even an infection would keep him down, as desperately as you wish it would. It might slow the healing on his wounds, but at least it would keep him off his ankle before he really hurt it.

You grab more bread, milk, some sandwich meat and cheese, a hastily grabbed bag of salad mix and dressing- he does need something more green once in a while. You slide through the pharmacy area and grab ibuprofen for his fever, plus burn cream- most of it had closed and didn’t seem to be bothering him-- not that anything ever _did_ , and a whole box of big gauze dressings. 

Around the corner you grab a plain black toothbrush. Done. Food and medicine, that should be all you need- you glance over the aisle signs to think if there’s anything you’re missing. And as you’re looking, you hear a sniffle.

You look- there’s an anxious looking man at the checkout furthest from you, but he’s not paying attention to you. He looks around, leans over the little moving conveyor belt to peer out at the front door. He jumps- reaches for something under his counter as the motion sensor doors open- and an older woman shuffles into the store. The man folds forward, presses his face into his hands. 

There’s another sniffle. You look around, and find a customer service desk a few feet from you. The kiosk is painted green in the store’s color, but the lights are all off and nobody stands behind the counter. You move your cart out of the way and approach the fake wood counter. You lean over it- and find someone tucked under the lip. 

You try for soft, “Hey,” 

She cries out and shoots upright, wiping her tears away with alarming speed. “Sorry! Can I h-help you?” She hiccups. She can’t be more than 16 with her red hair in a tight bob. Her eyeliner is streaked and smudges under her hasty rubbing. Her apron has a name tag stuck to it, _Deirdre_

“Are you okay?” You ask- and feel a little stupid. She’s obviously not. For a minute it looks like she’s going to wave you off with some poor excuse, before her lips waver, her eyebrows pulling in tight. Her mouth puckers, her eyes pinching closed as she begins to cry again- but no noise escapes her. She claps her hands over her mouth as she sobs.

You reach across the counter and hope you come across as comforting, you touch her shoulder. She nods so you wait- she tries to choke out some words, but finds nothing. She sniffs hard, “I’m sorry, it’s just-” Her lips warp again and she fights back another sob. “I hate this so much, why is this happening to us? She never deserved that...”

You stiffen, news reports playing in your head. “What?”

She wipes at her face again, makeup irreparably damaged now. She glances around, as though whatever haunts her will appear in the first shadow. “He killed Irene. Nobody wants to say it, but everyone knows it was him.” 

Ice rushes through your veins. Your soothing touch turns stiff. “Irene?”

She nods. “It was horrible, there was so much blood.” She shakes her head, looks at the floor, but her eyes are unfocused. “It was Myers. We’re all on edge now, just kind of hoping he’s moved on...”

“Myers?” You repeat dumbly, “As in… the killer?”

One unpinned piece of hair sways as she nods. “He got out. Just before Halloween, killed a bunch of people over in Haddonfield. He just, _stopped._ ” Her voice cracks and begins to rise, “They all just _stopped_ looking for him! Like it was over!” 

Your mouth turns dry, stare mutely as fresh tears spout from her eyes. You need to get out of here, need to get back to Michael-

“Oh, Dee.” You jolt, spin to find a man with salt-and-pepper hair stepping behind the counter. “Shh, shh…” He draws the redhead into his arms, she lays her head against his shoulder and weeps. He turns to you, brown eyes soft and kind in a way you haven’t seen in- “I’m sorry about that.” 

You can barely keep your mind together- You say something to him that you’ve forgotten as soon as they words leave your lips and he nods, going back to stroking the girl’s arms.

You push the cart down to the check out. The jumpy man startles at your presence, but swipes your items with swift fury. Your hand shakes as you punch in your PIN. The other cashier gives you your bags without a single word passing between you. 

You leave in silence, making it all the way to your car before it catches up to you. You drop the bags in your trunk and sit in the driver’s seat, can’t even get your keys in the ignition before you feel like dead weight. He killed Irene. It had to be him. Which means he’s killed your neighbors- not just the dozen faceless people in Haddonfield or however far he’d gotten when he left, but people you know. 

The guilt crashes over you and you are lost under the waves. Your forehead meets the steering wheel as you double over. Hot tears fall over your cheeks but you don’t make a sound.

You’re home. You stare at the house, unseeing as you blink and rub at your itchy eyes. The drive home was all gone, nothing of the dark streets had imprinted itself on your memory. Your hands tremble on the wheel and you steady yourself before you can turn off the engine. _It doesn’t change anything._ You press your head back into the headrest, pinch your eyes closed. _He did it days ago. He didn’t know. You’re already guilty of helping him._

You close the car door and grab your bags. The car honks when you lock it- you cringe, hope Michael’s still out cold. You could use a while longer without having to look at him, masked or not. If you saw him now… You want to kick yourself, the mean voice in your head ready to gloat. You’d already known what he is. Did you think he’d somehow left that behind? That it wouldn’t affect you? If he was up now, you doubt you’d do much more than collapse into a puddle of new tears. What would he think of you crying? He’s not the comforting type. 

You haul the bags up the steps to the porch and set them beside the door while you fish out your house key. They jingle, cold in your hands, a shiver making you miss the keyhole the first time. You turn the key- and your heart stops cold in your chest.

The tumbler does not fall. It’s already unlocked. You stand there, holding the key but not opening the door and run through the evening over and over. You locked the door on the way out. You locked it. You’re sure. 

You turn the knob and push open the wood. The evening programming for the network was playing, an older, more serious animation was droning on around the corner, washing the entryway with changing neon colors. The characters speak loudly, but you listen closely- and find no breathing, no snoring, no Michael.

You step inside and drop the bags by the door, close it behind you. You walk the house in a daze; there’s no one on the couch. The guest bedroom is empty and so is the common bathroom. Even your room is dark and silent, no murderers waiting for you inside. That’s somehow worse. 

You would rather him be lurking in your house, furious and bloodlusting, than out there- hunting. He’s already cursed your town once. 

You put the food away in the kitchen, barely keeping your mind together enough to remember what should be going where. You ball up the plastic bags, lay out the other sundries on the counter and move to throw the bag of bags under your sink. 

You pretend you do not notice another empty slot in your knife block. 

You repack the medkit in near silence, unpackaging the burn cream and bandages to stuff them into the pockets of the kit. The plot of the cartoon playing was lost on you, your eyes barely seeing more than the square red bag. 

You even place the black toothbrush on the counter to your bathroom, not bothering with the pretense of putting it in the common bath. With that done, you have nothing to do but wait. He returned last time. You can feel it deep inside; there’s something different about how he looks at you, there’s still some reason he hasn’t killed you. He could’ve waited for you to return and instead he is out killing someone else. There’s meaning in that, somehow. He’ll be back.

You can’t wait here.

You take a thick coat from your closet and head back out to your porch. The old wood creaks as you sit on the stairs and look out into the darkness. It’s bitterly cold, a soft breeze fighting to cut through your windbreaker, but stinging at your face. The moon is only about half full, but there’s enough light for you to see a fair distance around your house and off into the woods before shadows hide the multitudes of trees. 

Time is fluid around you, your thoughts as loose and meaningless as the leaves that tumble past. The same horrific mantra you’d hoped you grown past resumes in your head: _You did this._ You killed Irene, you helped heal him. You left him alone. This was your fault. 

And yet- you know that’s not true. You didn’t make him kill people. You didn’t know who he was- didn’t even know if he would kill you. Your only flaw was caring for a human- how horrible. Unforgivable. You’re a monster as much as he his. 

You pick at the hem of the coat, angry tears gathering. You shouldn’t care about him, should’ve turned him in as soon as you realized what he was. Why couldn’t you stop? 

One bloodied shoe appears before you- then the other. His approach is perfect and silent, a ghost moving through the grass and trees. You scan upwards, and any lingering doubts about his activities of the night evaporated before your eyes. The blade still hangs in his hand in reverse-grip, dripping crimson. Further up and you take in his mask, nearly glowing in the silvery moonlight, take in the fresh, scarlet blood splattered across white latex. 

He hardly moves, still and tall, imposing in the darkness. You stare at the expressionless face, at the black, empty eyes and hold his invisible gaze. Has he been watching you? Waiting for you? You can hear his breathing now- heavy and labored, wet through the mask. 

The murderous impulse is still in the air- you can feel it radiating off him in waves. If he killed you now, you’d understand- you still deserved it. Can’t even find it in yourself to run from him- you know he’d win eventually. All you can do is shiver and stare at the strange man you’ve invited into your home, stiff and tall and bloodstained as he is, looking down at you over the nose of his mask. He steps forward, raises the knife- it flashes in the light and you pinch your eyes closed, look away.

The knife clatters noisily on the gravel.

You flinch- eyes snapping open to stare at the gory blade on the ground, looking up to him. His hand is half open, still raised. His arm wavers and you scramble up to your feet. There’s something wrong-- his breathing stutters- he falls. First to his knees, his palms catching his weight, before they, too, give out- 

And once more, there is a body in the leaves.

Your heart pounds in your chest and you stare down at the blue of his coveralls, the mess of synthetic hair that obscure the mask’s features. You could call the cops now, tell them he just appeared- but you’re already moving forward, rolling Michael over onto his back. You’re close enough now he could seize you, snap your neck before you even knew what was happening-- and though that drives a cold spear through your stomach, you don’t move away.

You hold your ear close to his mask and listen- he’s still breathing. Heavy and raspy- faster than his usual deep inhales. You touch the skin of his chest, just below his mask line, and he’s _boiling._ The infected wound. It must’ve been worse than you thought. 

You don’t have a choice, not really. 

As far as you can see, there’s no new slashes to his coveralls, no soaking spots on the fabric, no blood that shouldn’t be a victim’s. You drag him up the stairs, and once he’s in the entryway you go back outside to get the knife. It’s scarlet and dripping with gore all the way to the handle, still warm to the touch. You take it inside and put it in the sink, something to deal with later. 

With bloodstained hands you peel him out of the coveralls and check him again for new injures. You find only scorching skin, his chest flushed and pink. The cut on his stomach is inflamed, vile pus crusting around the wound. If only he’d come back sooner the first time.

Getting his clothes off entirely was easier than you’d thought- he’s heavy, but once you got it past his waist, you can peel it off his legs with ease, only have trouble getting the bundled cloth over his bound ankle (which was still swollen). Seeing him nude except for his mask should be much more disconcerting than it is, but you’ve already seen him hard. He’s cum on you. Marked you. This is practically clinical in comparison.

You lift him by his shoulders and hope you’re not hurting his gunshot wound. It’s a straight shot down the hallway, but maneuvering him into the turn to your bedroom is harder than expected. The whole time, he does not wake. You don’t know how you lift him, but pulling his weight over your shoulder and pushing hard with your knees, you can force him up onto your bed. 

You hesitate there- but decide to take the risk and face his wrath later. You take the latex in hand and work it up over his chin. It gets caught on his nose, but after that- 

His eyes are closed, lashes gently laid on his cheeks, lips slightly chapped and parted as he pants, his face as unemotive as always. You cover him with the blankets and change out of your sweater and into a set of sleep clothes. You _could_ take the guest bedroom. That would be the right thing to do. 

You’re fairly sure you’d wake to him next to you anyway. He hasn’t left you alone a single night since he’s been here and if he’d fight through his sickness to kill, he’d surely fight through it to end up in bed with you again.

The memory of Michael’s warm skin, the soothing surety of his pulse under your ear haunts you- and you can’t say it wasn’t nice. While he sleeps, absolutely unconscious to your distressing decision-making, you crawl under the covers of your bed.

You scoot closer, lay an arm over him- he’s burning hot, but the fever will do him good. There’s little you can do for him now, so you press your face against his side and hope, just once, you will be lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone!! I hope y'all all are having lovely holidays!  
> Please comment if you can, it really means the world to me ❤️


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In your bed, Michael is sprawled on his back, having moved again in your absence. He groans, turning his head away. Your heart aches as he shivers with chills. You pull the blankets up around him and press the back of your hand to his cheek again. Another noise resonates in his throat. He’s burning up.

He wakes you with hot, grasping hands, his fingers dig hard into you, his breath on your neck-

Fear takes you first, cold and crisp in your veins. You remember what happened last night, that you’ve stripped him down and even taken off his mask. You press your eyes closed and expect the pain at your throat as he crushes your larynx- resumes right where he left off before-

and fingers grapple, fumble with your sleep shirt. He’s rolled half onto you, one huge leg covering both of yours- and his hips rock against your thigh. His hands are fever-hot, his touch making you sweat under the blankets.

You look to him, not quite sure if you can believe- 

His eyes are open, or at least the milky, blind one is; he lies on his right side and the icy blue iris is hidden. But the eye you can see is unfocused, half-lidded, blinks lazily. Does he even know what’s going on or is all he knows is the primal urges under sentient thought? He opens his mouth- a shuddering sigh escapes. He grabs at you, pulls you closer as he ruts. 

His skin is feverish, frenzied- and you remember. He’s naked under the blanket, the only thing between you are your thin pajama pants, shorts. His hand slips down and paws unintelligibly at the hem of your pants. Heat floods your core.

You grab his wrist and wince at the warmth you find even there. “Michael.” 

He _grunts_ and fumbles, closing his eyes and pressing his hips harder against your hip. You can feel him; thick and firm. “Michael, shh, shh,” 

You let go of his hand and worm your way between your bodies- the heat is unbearable, makes your palms sweat as you find him. The angle is hell on your wrist, but from the choked-off noise that rumbles through his chest, you don’t think you’ll need to do much of the work.

He’s smooth, almost soft to the touch, and yet so firm it makes your legs tremble. He could fuck you now- even delusional with infection, he could overpower you. Make this so easy. Stop the frustrating dance between you with one fevered impulse.

You shudder, push the thought away that you _want_ him to. 

You want to know what it feels like to have that deep ache filled properly, want to know the feeling of him moving inside you- and he ruts into your hand, his eyes dropping closed. You curl your fingers tighter, turn to alleviate some of the pressure on your wrist, and try to remember how he’d touch himself.

You swipe your thumb across the underside of the tip, twist your wrist as best you can with the angle- his breath is hot and humid on your shoulder. He tries to move with you, but ends up with a stuttering, off-rhythm cant of his hips. Three short nails bite into your skin as he tries to drag you closer, your hip bone already digging into your forearm again. You roll with him, try to sate his need for closeness until you’re nearly properly front to front. His cock is already pressed between your stomach and his. 

His teeth find your shoulder. You cry out sharply as he agitates the still healing wounds he’d left on you a little over a day ago-- but there’s no real threat behind it. His incisors scrape off your neck with relatively little damage. It’s almost normal, as tortuously close to a real lover’s embrace as Michael can get. It makes you mewl, traitorous body leaning your head away so he can bite at your already purpled neck. 

You free your other arm from under him and grab at his back, reaching up to feel his short hair under your palm. His right hand finds the back of your left thigh, slides up to just under the curve of your ass, pushing the leg of your shorts out of the way. 

He grinds against you, uses what leverage he can to push himself into your hand. You stroke him in the little space you have, feel the blood pulsing in him. He exhales, breath cooling where he’s bitten. The nails dig in again, crescent-shaped pain lighting up your skin- a wetness gathers on your palm and you know he’s close. 

You want so badly for him to be inside you, want him to fill you- to claim you so deep he can’t be washed out. Pain lances through you sharp and brutal: His teeth lock onto your shoulder exactly where he’d broken skin two nights ago. You whimper- and he drives harder against your palm.

That’s right. He likes hearing you. It doesn’t come naturally- vocality not something you do for yourself. Your nails scratch lightly across his shoulders, your voice trembles. “Michael.”

His teeth dig in hard, though not nearly as much as before, but the damage is already done. It takes so little for the scabs to rip open. You give a strained _“Ah!”_ and warmth trickles over your chest. In pain you tighten your hand around him-

A noise slips past his lips- he bites down and down until tears stream over your cheeks. His hips stutter, his cock throbs between you. A wet heat spills over your hand, staining into your shirt. His jaw does not unclench the entire time, his hands spasm around you, nails biting into your skin in on and off waves in time with tiny staccato jerks of his hips.

He relaxes slowly, the tension ebbing out in a slow crawl until he’s dislodged himself from your shoulder and laps at the fresh blood on your chest. You mewl, can’t contain yourself at the soothing press of his tongue to your wounds- even if he was the one to cause them. Michael sighs and you can just barely see enough of his face to know he’s closed his eyes. The heat in your core is unbearable, you manage to steal your hand back from under Michael’s weight. 

It’s shameful. You can’t stop yourself. Your hand shakes and you can’t even bother to wipe off his release. Your shorts are easy to push aside- the thought of how easy it would’ve been, if he’d only been a little more aware, a little less fever-hazed. Your breathing shudders, it would take so little to set you off now. You just need something to touch you, to rub your clit just a _little_ \- 

Your fingers delve into your underwear. You’re soaking, hot and wanting- your fingers swirl into the wetness and drag it up to your swollen, hard clit. The first touch is electric, sparks flying behind your eyes and you’re so, so close from so _little-_

And that’s as far as you get.

One large hand curls around your wrist in warning. You whine, lift your hips as much as you can with Michael’s weight on you. “Michael, please, please…” 

He drags your hand out. He leans away from your neck. There’s blood smeared around his mouth and you hate that he looks _so good_ with red staining his beard. His eyes are cold and unreadable, still dazed with fever which brings a pinkness to his cheeks that matches his own. 

He holds up your hand and it glistens in the morning light- the tips of your fingers covered in your own translucent arousal, Michael’s more opaque cum smeared across the back of your hand and dripping down your forearm. 

He stares you down, but you can’t understand what he wants from you, can hardly think of anything except the incessant heat between your legs. Your hips lift and writhe under him, desperate for release, but he does not move, does not even notice the futile struggle beneath him. He brings your hand forward without looking, never even lays eyes on it- and his tongue, soft and shiny wet, slips between his swollen lips.

He steals the air from your lungs, leaves you gasping as he licks your fingertips. Your hand twitches involuntarily and you feel the tiny bumps of his taste buds, how the muscle curls around your finger entirely, his mouth dropping open to suck on your index finger. He doesn’t look away, holds you in place through it all- 

His eyes waver, sliding out of focus once. His head bobs to the side and startles back up. You should be concerned, but you’re just too aroused. Humiliation and desperation the only things you can focus on- the thick knot pulled tighter below your navel. He knows. One corner of his mouth lifts, his eyes flashing with a sadistic light- he knows you won’t try it again. You’re too good, too _obedient-_ and you want to beg again, find exactly what words he wants you to say, 

But his gaze goes far off again- and those blue irises slide up under his lids, the opportunity lost.

He rests with his cheek on your breast. You pull your fingers from his hot, wet mouth, but can’t find the strength to wipe them off. You tremble, press your thighs together to alleviate the unending ache. You want it. You haven’t gotten off since before you’d met him and everything he’s done to you in the last week has driven your need to the limits. He’s cum thinking of you three times _that you know of._

And here he was. Demanding you stop from finding your own ends, from reciprocating his desire. You should be furious, should finish yourself off anyway- but something about it made your skin burn. His control shouldn’t be intoxicating, you shouldn’t bend to the will of a murderer, of someone who’s pressed a knife to your skin and wanted to snap your neck.

But you do. You lay there and stare at the ceiling, listen to the birds begin to sing outside your window, feel each deep breath Michael takes, each exhale hot and slow over your chest. The ache subsides eventually and you reclaim the headspace you had lost. 

He’s sick. He’s _really_ sick if he’s delirious enough to be grinding on you and nearly fucking _groaning_ for your touch. He was so calculating, so in control two nights ago. Would he even remember this? 

His brow draws down, skin wrinkling- his eyes move under his lashes in a fever dream. His leg twitches, then his fingers, tickling at your side, before the illusion makes him turn away, releasing you from under his weight. You shimmy off the bed before he can turn back. The cold shocks you; Michael’s fever and fevered grinding under the blankets had trapped so much heat, you’d nearly forgotten how damn cold it was. 

While up, you take the chance to slide out of your underwear and switch into a fresh set of clothes- all the while pointedly ignoring the dampness spread over the center of last night’s set. Today’s wouldn’t last long, but at least you wouldn’t be constantly reminded of your failings as a human being. 

You shuffle out to the living room and take a cursory glance through the windows. You flinch at the sight before you. You rush to the front door and pull it open- what little warmth was preserved by the cabin’s walls was lost.

There’s bloodstains on your porch. They aren’t red anymore, already oxidized in the night and soaked into the grain, forming long, dark brown streaks. 

You grab baking soda and vinegar from the kitchen along with a scouring pad. The air is brisk and a breeze makes you hate the world a little more, but you needed to do this before anyone unfortunate sees. You pour white powder over the streaks- thin though they were- and follow it up with the scouring pad soaked in vinegar. It’s disconcerting- your wrist and forearm are still marked with Michael’s cum. You hadn’t even thought to rinse that first. 

You shake your head- just need to finish this, then you can get Michael’s cum and the stink of vinegar off your hands. Though it had been left overnight, there wasn’t enough blood for the stain to sink very far. He hadn’t been injured, most of it is contact stains from whoever- whatever he’d found. You’re shivering, teeth-clattering by the time you’re done. The skin on your arms is raised in perpetual goosebumps, the little hairs standing upright- but the streaks are as gone as you can get them. A splash of bleach will help to erode any remnants. If you can get it thin enough, it shouldn’t deteriorate your porch too much. You’ll have to wait for the vinegar to dry, first.

You drop the scouring pad in the trash and put the baking soda and vinegar- both nearly empty- on the counter. You turn and- you grimace. The bloody knife sits in the sink. It, too, has oxidized into rusty stains instead of the horrible crimson streaks. You turn on the tap and leave it running over the blade. 

You pour bleach onto a rag and move to the knife. Large flakes of dried blood have been washed away under the tap water, but outlines of the pools remain hard stuck to the blade and handle. The rag takes those off with just a touch of pressure from your fingernails, the stainless steel not a perfect surface to bind with blood. 

Blood. It was really blood you were washing-

This was someone’s blood. He killed someone- maybe more than one- last night. You don’t even know who, didn’t even ask. He couldn’t have gone far while that injured; he must’ve found someone nearby. This was another person’s blood. And you wipe it away, slide the rag over the knife blade, get down close to the joint of tang and handle, scrub into the textured grip until all you have is the sheen of polished metal. You put it in the drying rack- can’t decide if you should put it back in your knife block.

Distantly, you know it should be fine- bleach would destroy any blood, any _evidence._

Instead, you go back outside with a cup of diluted bleach and the rag. The surface outside is dry, but you don’t particularly care if you _do_ get a reaction now. 

You pour some bleach over the wood and lean away from the fumes as they rise. Back to your knees, you swipe the chemical over the deteriorating blood stains. Maybe it wouldn’t get rid of them, but at least you could try to deal with any evidence that was left behind. 

You don’t even feel cold when you go in the next time.

You return to the kitchen and rinse the bleach cup and leave the rag under the running water as you squirt generous amounts of soap onto your hands. It’s floral scented, something edging on tropical. You scrub everything from your hands, blood and bleach and cum and vinegar and _guilt_ \- there’s nothing to be done now. You breathe deep and focus on the heat in the water, the suds on your skin. 

Michael is sick. The thought slips into your brain without any interest. You need to bring him medicine, water, and maybe see if he’s hungry. Could go back to sleep. It was so comforting in Michael’s heat, just maybe you can seek that again. Maybe he’ll even lay on you again- despite the sticky outcome, the pressure had felt nice, like safety. 

You fill a glass with ice water, grab the ibuprofen from the coffee table and your phone from the end table. At least you can be ready when he wakes again. 

In your bed, Michael is sprawled on his back, having moved again in your absence. He was such a dead sleeper, was it really only sickness that had thrown him so far off? You circle around the bed and put the water and pill bottle on the night stand- even popping the safety foil and shaking out two white oblong pills to set by the cup. He groans, turning his head away. Your heart aches as he shivers with chills. You pull the blankets up around him and press the back of your hand to his cheek again. Another noise resonates in his throat. He’s burning up- even against your hands that had already been warmed under the hot water.

An idea strikes you. You go back out to the living room and retrieve the digital thermometer from your first aid kit. He wouldn’t let you take his temperature while awake, but now he’s so delirious with fever, you might just be able to get away with it. A quick press of the button and a little beep prepares the thermometer. A slight pull at his jaw is all it takes to make his lips part and you slide the tip into his mouth, aiming for what you hope to be under his tongue. 

A noise rumbles from his chest, brow knitting together and he closes his mouth a little too hard. If he breaks your thermometer… You run your nails through his hair just past his temple and down past his ears. You shush him, speak quietly, “Shh, it’s okay, Michael…” He doesn’t relax, but he doesn’t bite down any harder. Three quick beeps tells you it’s done- the little display lighting up blue as you pull the tip from Michael’s mouth. 

There are little teeth marks on the stem, tiny ridges where the plastic began to split. You shake your head- and sigh. A hundred and three even. You need to take him to the hospital. 

They’d lock both of you up. 

You pick at the edge of the blanket. You had no good options. You’d rather Michael Myers did not die in your bed, but seeking medical help was out of the question. You lean forward and hold his cheek, your fingers curling into the dip below his ear. It’s warm, his skin is so warm, his cheeks tinged pink. You press your lips against his forehead and hope you’re doing the right thing.

You doubt it’ll stay, but you grab some extra towels from your bathroom and roll them up. You lift the bottom corner of the blanket, and prop up his bound ankle on the towels. 

Best you can do is wait it out, keep him comfortable. You round back to your side and fish out the remote to the TV in your bedroom from your nightstand. You turn it on and turn the volume down low- change the channel to the network you were on yesterday. If he liked cartoons so much, you could indulge him. A pastel themed show plays and you crawl under the blankets. 

He’s warm to the touch- and you hope you aren’t bothering him as you curl up beside him. You press your back to his side, and open your phone. You flip through internet searches on how to care for infected wounds- and didn’t like anything you saw. Without going to a doctor, your _only_ course of action was to wait it out. 

_He’s indestructible._ Your mind whispers, and for once you can’t disagree. He’d been shot, stabbed, slashed, _burned_ and had been up and walking almost immediately after you bandaged him. He’d been shot six times back before he was recaptured. If he didn’t die then, he wouldn’t die now. 

He seems to agree. His fever makes him seek your coolness, his body soon pressed snugly against yours in an unconscious, messy attempt at spooning. You very nearly laugh, but the heat of his breath on your back makes you too afraid that you’ll disturb him. It’s nice. You can pretend so easily like this. 

So you think he’s your soft, kind-hearted lover who’s sleeping in, one thick arm holding you back against him. The fantasy is nice and you cycle through your app games while the TV plays softly.

A new show’s intro plays. And then another’s.

You’re reading a long post on social media- some rant from a friend of a friend, juicy gossip from halfway across the state. It’s nice to have drama that isn’t related to what you want to bed. 

Nails bite into your side. You hiss, turn over to your back to face your now awake guest- there’s a weight in the air. You can feel it before you even see him, that oppressive force that surrounds him from time to time. You’ve already started the motion to turn and you can’t stop now. 

HIs eyes pierce through you like needles through fabric. Cold and icy and unseeing, his upper lip twitches into a sneer. “Michael?” 

He lunges- doesn’t get far. He’s tangled up in the blankets all twisted around his legs, but it doesn’t stop him from grabbing your arms and pulling you close, the motion uncoordinated and loose- one hand wraps around your throat. You pulse hammers under his thumb, fast and weak. A second stretches to millennia as you’re pinned under the weight of his gaze- before you’re grabbing at his wrist with one hand.

He’s weak with sickness, you fighting at all catches him off guard, makes him topple forward onto you. You shove at him, grapple with his left hand as he tries to find your throat again- “Michael! Stop!” 

He worms his arm free, hauling himself forward to use his knee to hold your arm down- and there’s nothing in his eyes. Not just unreadable, but glassy, flat- there’s nothing at all behind them, like looking into a doll’s black eyes. He tries to squeeze down, but it’s like he’s forgotten how to move his hands, he wavers above you. 

Tears prick your eyes and you writhe under him, trying to buck him off with what little leverage you had- his eyes fog and he blinks slowly. You’re frantic- more panicked than you’ve ever felt with him. Because it’s _not_ him, he’s lost under the fever and whatever primal urge that drives him to kill has taken him- This is it, he’s finally do it, finally kill you as he’s wanted all along and all you can do is whisper, “Please, please,”

The tightening of his hands never comes. His breathing evens out, awareness softening his eyes and for once, you think you can see something in them. The minuscule raising of his brow, how it takes him just barely too long to close his mouth and regulate his breathing- it’s almost shock. A tiny scrap of horror woven in the huge tapestry of unreadable Michael. 

He doesn’t move for a long moment, but you can tell it’s him now. The careful control has resumed. His hands linger on your neck, his thumb stroking over your fluttering pulse as you tremble and feel a hot tear slide over your cheek unbidden. He moves back and releases you arms from under his knees; blood rushes to the tips of your fingers so fast it makes them hurt. 

His face is schooled back into neutral impassivity. The blood continues to rush in your ears, adrenaline making your head buzz, as he unwinds himself the from the blankets and shivers, settling back into his nest. He lays on his back and stare up at the ceiling- what could he be thinking about? What… made him stop? You look at him. 

For once, he does not look to you. His eyelids droop, gaze sliding out of focus again. You’re a taut wire waiting to be cut- tension binding every muscle. His eyes slide closed and you can’t relax. If he woke up murderous this time, what would stop him next time?

The blankets shift between you- you jump. HIs hand finds you under the sheet. You expect pain- expect another bruising grip and tight-pinched bones. 

It’s not an apology. He doesn’t understand remorse, or was that only for the people he intentionally kills? The people he _hunts._ He doesn’t look at you. He does not grace you with drawn-together eyebrows and a sharp, tight frown or the knowledge if _remorse_ can even appear in his chilling eyes. All you get is the soft trace of his fingertips on your side, hard fingernail making you shiver. 

You can’t call it kind, but it’s far from cruel. 

He doesn't open his eyes, but you lean to him and lay a single kiss to his shoulder, just to the side of his gunshot bandage. _That wasn’t him._ His head lolls to the side and his fingers still. You want to move away, to go sit in the chair in the corner of your room- but this time you do not pretend. He’s not a warm and gentle lover, a goofy boyfriend. But he touches you with a tenderness you had not expected, and that’s good enough.

Your phone is drained to just over half battery when he wakes again. He rolled away from you after about an hour, thrown back into a restless dream that made him kick at the blankets until you had to get up and rearrange them to keep him warm. He’d grumbled at that, but you knew you had to keep the heat in with him until the fever broke. 

But now, you look away from your screen to see his eyes opening slowly, blinking several times.

“Hey,” You draw his attention. He turns, his face is as emotionless as ever, but you can see the dull shine of his eyes are betrays how sick he really is. It takes a long moment before recognition sparks. You point to his nightstand. “There’s water over there. And some painkillers.” 

He turns away and takes the glass. He drinks with the same ferocity he had the first day- but you scowl at his apparent refusal to take the ibuprofen you’d laid out for him. He swallows loudly, and you’re once again gifted with the sight of water trailing over his chin and through his beard. 

“Those’ll help you.” You try again, but it falls on deaf ears. He finished the entire cup, even takes one of the dwindling ice cubes between is teeth and _bites._ He looks to your television instead, sinking into the pillows. 

You sigh and give in. There’s no way you’ll be able to convince him of something like that and you had no faith in being able to get him to swallow without choking if he’s unconscious again. Instead you check the clock on your phone- it’s nearly noon already. 

“Are you hungry?” You ask, but Michael’s eyes are already closed again, the empty glass still in his hand, tipped haphazardly and threatening to spill the remaining ice onto his chest. You huff a laugh and pluck the cup from his hands and put it on your night stand. 

You should’ve known what a handful he’d be while sick; he was already such a prick to deal with when in his right mind. You slide out of bed and take his cup to the kitchen to refill it and decide, fuck it. You’ll get a hot bowl of soup and maybe that’ll coax him into hunger. 

_Please don’t be nauseous._ You repeat in your head. _Please, please do not be sick in my bed._

The pot of soup in the fridge is heavy, but you manage to get it onto the counter without any spills. From the cabinets you grab two bowls and a ladle. You try to be generous with the broth; just in case he is sick to his stomach, you know he won’t tell you. Better if it’s mostly liquid. You put his bowl in the microwave and watch the timer count down. When it beeps, you drop a spoon in the steaming bowl, grab another kitchen towel and fold it under the bottom so he can hold it. 

He stirs as you enter the room, apparently not having really gotten back to sleep. He’s more aware this time, but still drowsy as he sits up straight. You smile at him, and he does not reciprocate. 

“I got you some food.” You circle the bed again and offer the bowl. He takes it- and reaches up to touch his mask. He finds only skin. His expression does not change- and that’s the worst part. Passive, statuesque, and somehow not at all betraying the surprise of finding his own beard in place of white latex. 

“It’s here.” You hold your hands up and retrieve the bloodied mask from the end of the bed where you’d left it (and he’d kicked it off). He looks at it, then to you. You shrug, rub your thumb over the cracked surface. “It’s not good for your fever. Please, don’t put it back on yet. At least wait until your fever breaks?”

Sickness limits his comprehension, but at least it seems his emotions or urges are under control. Michael does not nod, does not really acknowledge anything you said, except to look down at the bowl. His control of the fork had been limited, and he fumbles with the spoon; his fingers too big and his dexterity too impaired by infection to deal with it. He holds it against the rim and presses the bowl to his mouth.

You smile; you guess he likes it. His Adam's apple bobs frantically, draining most of the broth from the bowl- and only then does he go back for the solids. “Think you’ll want more?” 

He pauses, blue eyes narrow for a split second, but he gives you no answer. You accept that, and go back to the kitchen to refill his water. You’re sure he’ll want it. 

While there you fill your own bowl and carry both glass and bowl to your room and successfully manage to open your door. He waits, watching a cartoon that starts with a fast-paced intro, high-contrast characters. You wonder if he likes Tom and Jerry more than these shows. 

You offer him the glass and he takes it. This time, he only drinks half before shakily placing it on his own end table. You eat and watch, mostly skimming through your phone between bites. He sets the bowl beside him and leans back- and you grin ear to ear at the sight of the empty ceramic. You don’t have to bother asking if he wants more, his eyes are already drifting away- occasionally blinking and rolling and trying to right himself into consciousness. 

“You can sleep. It’s okay.” He looks at you from the corner of his eye. Does he trust you? He must to some degree- to eat without his mask on, to let you bathe and bandage him. If only he were easier to read (not that you particularly want a repeat of what had happened earlier), you could shape your response better. “I’ll watch over you.” 

Something passes over his face too fast for you to be able to even think to read it. But his continuous attempts to stay awake lessen, and soon enough his eyes drift close and he does not startle himself awake.

His cheeks are still flushed, the pinkness hiding under his beard, but re-emerging on his neck and shoulders. It’s cute. The urge to kiss him- to _actually_ kiss him rises unbidden. His attractiveness is something understated, almost plain. But like this you can see it again: he really was attractive when he was young. When he’s relaxed and his eyes cannot threaten you in silence, you can follow the sharp lines of his face, the strong shape of his nose. He must’ve been absolutely angelic. 

It’s hard to imagine him young and gorgeous and hiding under a mask.

You steal the bowl from him and deposit it onto your nightstand again. How long would he be out this time? A fever that high, and you have no idea how he usually is even with a little cold. You reach over, and ever so gently drag your nails across his scalp. His lashes lift- not fully asleep yet. With fever-hazed eyes he looks at you and you freeze, but you don’t retract your hand. He’s opaque, as emotive as the dead- but his eyes slide closed again. He allows you this so you cradle your bowl in your lap and scratch softly over silver hair. Before long his chest rises sharply, and he sighs- immediately erupting into a tiny snore. You try not to laugh, but reclaim your hand so you can finally eat your own lunch. 

Your bowl ends up as empty as his and he does not stir as you stand and take them to the kitchen. The knife glints in the drying rack, but you ignore it in favor of cleaning up quickly-- you want to be there when he wakes again. 

But a commercial plays obnoxiously loud as you enter, and Michael does not look up at the screen. You take the opportunity to _once again_ retrieve his coveralls and deposit them into your washing machine. Even his mask gets carried to the sink and wiped down. The blood has seeped into the cracks, tinting them a dark rusty color, but at least the white is restored for most of the face. 

Returning to the bedroom again warrants no response, Michael snoring away pleasantly. You put the mask on his side table. You hope he won’t wear it again before his fever breaks, but also know that being without it bothers him- after all, it was the first real thing you’d been able to communicate with him about. He had even put it back on before he’d held you down and finished on you.

The memory sends a spark between your legs, makes you stare at the sleeping man and hope so badly he’ll wake up hard and wanting again. Because you won’t touch yourself without him. He’d been as clear as he could be. It doesn’t stop your wanting.

You push the thought away and return to your side of the bed. He sighs at the disturbance, but stays asleep. 

Over the next several hours, his waking periods are brief. Barely enough time for him to look at you- once reaching for you, but not quite making it- before his eyes roll back again. Only once do you get him to drink, and again he finishes his glass as though racing.

While he’s out and still nude, you take the time to inspect his wounds. You change the bandage on his shoulder- and gleefully find there’s no discoloration at all on the white gauze. A wound so deep will take a long time to heal completely, but at least he was getting better. 

But mostly he’s out of it. Fever dreams bring incoherent rumblings from him, you don’t Listen. It doesn't feel right to hear his voice when he so consciously refuses to speak. The temptation is strong, but you focus on your phone, on the television (which you have reclaimed control over while Michael dozes), and just about anything else. The occasional snore and snuffle makes you look to him, just to make sure his chest still rises and falls with clockwork rhythm. 

His eyes open again just as dusk begins to settle through your windows. You look to him, watch as awareness returns with its usual sluggish nature- his eyes becoming focused and sharp somewhere above the television’s screen. You know he’ll probably just roll over, angrily kick off the blankets because the fever has made him too warm or down another glass of water. And yet he doesn’t. He lies there for a minute, staring at the wall.

And then, he sits up- In that same way that was so strangely inhuman; his arms hardly exert any pressure on the mattress, his core flexing to bring him up. You frown and think of the cut on his abdomen- why couldn’t he be better about taking care of himself? The last time he sat up was when he was hungry and that was _quite_ a while ago. You open your mouth to ask if he’s hungry again, if more soup is fine-

When he pivots and firmly plants both feet on the ground. 

“Hey, what’re…?” You’re already up and moving around the end of the bed. Michael tries to stand, his full height towering over you for only a moment. He wavers on his feet, crumpling forward- catching himself on your dresser. You come up to his side and touch his back carefully. His eyes are far off and glassy and you panic- he’s going to faint again. 

“Here, sit down,” you urge him, and he does not comply. Determination fills his gaze, the fever set aside for one moment- and he pushes you away from him. You don’t go far, too concerned with whatever he was planning.

He stands again, and steps forward with his right leg. The compression wrap on his ankle makes him stumble. You catch him, his weight nearly making you crumple, but you move up to his right side and press close. His eyes are icy and cold. You can see the indignant glare building, unamused by your insistence on helping him. “Okay. Where do you need to go?” 

He wants to shove you away again, punish you for invading _his_ space _again._ But you were not going to let him walk on his own while his ankle is busted and he’s so fever-stricken he couldn’t even stand upright without nearly fainting. You hope whatever has kept you alive this long- whatever had made him _stop_ before- will carry on. So you hold his gaze and don’t back down. You’ll just have to deal with his ire later. “Let me help you.”

And something shifts. He tilts his head- tries to read something on you. He must like whatever he finds, because he does not fight you anymore. He does not willingly give you any of his weight, either, but he reaches out and supports himself with the wall and stumbles forward. 

You realize a bit too late he’s going for your bathroom. 

Your face turns as pink as his, but you help him. At the doorway, you try to duck under his arm and leave him be- he doesn’t let you go. What had been one arm slack over your shoulders becomes an unbreakable chain, his hand finding your upper arm and holding on tight. Even in a space small enough for him to be able to find something ls to lean on, he suddenly drops his weight onto your shoulders. You yelp, struggle to keep him upright, fight back the panic that he’s going to fall and crack his skull on the tile.

You catch his eyes- and your stomach flips. It can’t be real. There’s something a bit too keen in his gaze. If you didn’t know better you might mistake it as _fun._

You squeeze into the bathroom- for Michael to stand before the toilet, you have to be pressed tight between his right side and the bathroom wall. With you supporting a not insignificant amount of his weight now, you can’t escape. He leans forward and splays his three fingered hand over the wall behind the toilet.

You look to the ceiling; he doesn’t look away from you. Something hot and wet splatters onto the tile. 

_”Michael!”_ You gasp and realize the problem. With one arm around you and one arm on the wall in front of him, he isn’t... aiming. He’s stopped- continues to look at you. His expression is blank, utterly emotionless- betrays nothing of what he’s thinking. And he keeps looking at you as though this is your problem to solve.

It is your problem. He’s your problem. 

_You already jerked him off today._ You whisper to yourself and close your eyes. You reach in front of him blindly and follow the trail of soft, silver hair down his belly, over the terrible wound, until. You search the ceiling for meaning.

He’s warm. Soft, this time. _You already jerked him off. It can’t be any weirder than that._ Your fingers curl around him, and begin to lift- only to realize a fatal flaw in your willful ignorance. 

You can’t help him without looking. You’ll miss and only make a bigger mess and still will have touched his dick for nothing. 

It seems he knows this too. He doesn’t start again, waits so patiently for you to close your eyes and take in a shuddering breath. _You’ve seen it before._

He’s not hard. In truth, there’s little about his cock that should scare you for now. But you can feel his eyes burning a hole right through you. You tilt your wrist until you’re sure he can’t miss. 

And he still won’t start. You think you know why. You swallow, bite your lip hard and try not to tremble too hard. You meet his eyes. 

It’s like being punched in the gut, all the air escaping from you at once just from the power of his gaze. You’re pinned, stuck both physically and psychologically- unable to move away from him as he stares right into your soul. 

You wish again he was anyone else, but know the truth now: the very thing that draws you to him- that magnetic pull, the overwhelming presence masked in an unreadable face- would not exist if he _were_ anyone else. 

Something splashes, far off and away- and the knowledge of what’s actually happening is enough to make you break eye contact and focus hard on the corner of your bathroom. He continues to look at you, his head tipping slowly as though trying to recapture your gaze, but you safely escape his power while he handles himself. 

And soon, the trickling noise dies off. You stand there, unsure of what to do- this isn’t exactly how it works for you. He expects something else- but you don’t know what he wants. That’s about as usual at it can get for you. 

He huffs, shifts his weight on his feet and leans away from the back wall. You adjust to take more weight again- and his left hand curls behind yours on his dick. You look. He squeezes, and slides his hand up- knocking yours out of the way to hang limply at your side. At the tip he shakes- a few droplets escaping into the toilet. 

And being naked, he simply lets go.

You wobble, but pivot around him and let him guide you back out to the bedroom. He doesn’t even look at the sink, but that doesn’t really surprise you. He’d been caked in blood and grime when you found him. When isolated with regulated prison care his entire adult life, he’s never cared for himself. You ease him back into bed as his eyes become unfocused again. 

He doesn’t fight as you tuck him in, though he follows you with his eyes. He even lets you put his leg up on the stack of towels again before his eyes roll back. 

You return to the bathroom and clean up; seems Michael was always going to make messes you have to clean. Maybe if this was going to be long term you could at least talk to him about _flushing._ You hesitate, and look back to the man under your blankets. 

Long term was a bit of a stretch. The last time he got out he was only free for a day. And who knows the kind of technology the police have now- you’re amazed he’s even managed to survive this long. But they weren’t far off and you were already a person of interest. Long term, in all reality, would not be so long. 

You wash your hands. 

You crawl onto the bed with him, just as he’d held you in place before- settled over him, chest to chest, your ear pressed against his heart. His eyes open halfway to look at you and watch as you curl up on him. His hands touch your hips, so large he can nearly touch the column of your spine. You almost expect him to knock you away, to glare daggers and remove you- but it doesn’t come. 

You look up to him, admire the long line of his scar and the magnetic pull of his eyes; how beautiful even his blind eye is. His eyes close again and you’re left with the steady beating of his heart under your ear.

You wake- having rolled off him at some point- to Michael peeling the covers off himself and throwing them onto you. Rapid blinking did not help clarify- it’s still dark outside, your room lit with the overbright neon colors of the TV’s night programming. Michael sighs and you find him in the darkness. His eyes are closed but he’s scowling, his mouth open as he pants- 

The smell of stale sweat fills the room. You recoil, but in truth, it’s no worse than how he smelled that first night. You move to him and press your hand against his face- he snaps his head away. You would’ve been more upset at his rejections, unconscious though it is, except for the ecstatic relief that floods your system. His forehead is damp and as he shifts, you can see the outline around his body in the sheets- dark and wet.

His fever broke. He kicks at the blankets and reveals more of himself to the cool air. Happiness lights your face as you get up to refill his water- he’ll be damn thirty to sweat this much. 

In the kitchen, the sound of running water drowns out the TV in your bedroom. Across the lawn and through the trees, the sky is tinted orange, a diffused light spreading on the night’s clouds.

It seems the worst has passed. If his fever has broken, his body must have deemed the infection dying. He’d be back on his feet soon. 

Too soon. His ankle is still sprained and even if he can purge the infection, the wound will still need considerable time to heal. He’d paid so little attention to his other wounds, leaving twice in spite of them. You were sure he _felt_ pain, he had favored his left leg after walking for some time on the right- he’s just too damn stubborn to stop and heal.

Or maybe it’s survival. 

If he stops too long he’ll be found. He only escaped for a day last time. You wish you could say he’d be safe here, but you know it’s not true. He needs to move on. You can’t imagine where he’ll go, what sweet, quiet town he’ll haunt next. 

There’s an unasked question that probes the back of your mind and you refuse to acknowledge it. You return to the bedroom with Michael, blink tiredly at the gentle morning light that threatens to shine through your windows. He’s restless- his mouth open in a pant, sweat beaded across his chest. You leave the water on his nightstand and grab a washcloth.

You soak it in the bathroom sink and wring it out so it is damp. Michael’s head thrashes, fingers twitching at his sides in some dream you hope you aren’t a part of. You lay the pale cloth over his forehead. It doesn’t stop his internal struggle- with either uncomfortable fever sweat or a real dream, but it makes you feel better. 

_When he moves on, what will happen to me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'3 Happy Tuesday y'all. We're almost there.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was all going to come crashing down now. You don't now how they know, but they do- all you can hope is that Michael is far enough away that they won't be able to track him. You'll never see him again- You can't hide the tremor in your voice, “Am I under arrest?”
> 
> Cool blue eyes bear down on you and you want to sink into the ground. “Should you be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the editing on this is a lil rushed bc I'm so very late but I'm also still sick and depressed enough I can't focus on it! But fuck it, I was excited to get this chapter out because. This is it y'all. Next chapter is the epilogue.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's stuck around and commented and kudos'd this big weird NaNo experiment that got way out of control.

You wander down the hallway, your movements sluggish and far away- you did not sleep well last night. Michael was not in bed when you woke. Yesterday he'd still been unwell enough to mostly remain in bed, but if he was up today... Fear had taken you at first. Thoughts ringing too loudly in your skull: _he’s gone._ He’s gone to kill someone again. 

But muffled sounds passed between your bedroom wall and living room. Cartoons. Tom and Jerry. You couldn't help but laugh.

You changed out of your dirty pajamas- never having really changed much in Michael’s sickness- and into something fresh. Jeans and a big sweater. You brushed your teeth and inspected your neck in the mirror. Though Michael’s fevered and half-dreamed attack on you had irritated the delicate skin of your neck, the bruises he’d left were fading quickly into yellow-green shadows.

Two days have passed since Michael’s fever broke. He must’ve still felt awful to not be more active- though he’d been walking around yesterday and was independent enough to not make you help him to the bathroom again. He’d even put the mask back on, slept in it next to you once you’d dragged him into the shower and washed the sweat from his scalp. But he had not been too terrible of a patient, less standoffish than he’d been before he was sick. Maybe he had learned he truly preferred to stay in bed and watch TV than to be a thorn in your side.

You doubted it, though.

And as you got to the entryway and the openings between kitchen and living room, you find him- back in his now clean coveralls and mask- sitting on your couch and watching Tom and Jerry. It’s good to see him up, you decide. The mask turns slowly as he acknowledges your presence.

“I’m making coffee. Do you want some?”

He nods. You smile, but try not to make a big deal about his continued communication. He still would not talk- you aren’t sure if he even remembers how at this point- but he’s at least more forthcoming with affirmative answers. 'No's are still silent or warning wrist-grabs. But maybe you’ll get him to shake his head one day, too. 

You pour grounds into the coffee maker and pick out the two mugs at the front of your cabinet. One is black with little red hearts on it, the other is a plain gray. You kind of want to give Michael the Valentine’s Day cup, just to see its cutesy aesthetic in his big, indelicate hands. You decide against it- just in case Michael is feeling less generous today. Besides, you’d probably enjoy it too much and knock him out of a good mood if he happened to have one.

You stand in the kitchen and scroll through your phone as you wait, leaning against the entryway molding to peek into the living room, not too unlike what Michael does when he lurks near you. 

The little black appliance beeps obnoxiously loud and you move back to it. You make your cup first, before starting to call back to him, “How do you- _oh,”_ The mask is already behind you, Michael cornering you in your little kitchen. It is not fear alone that makes you shiver, but his sudden proximity just another reminder how easily he could end you. The empty eye holes stare down at you; he does not reach for the cream and sugar.

So you do, turning away from him- turning your back on a murderer!- and towards the counter again. You pour one spoonful of sugar into the gray mug and glance over your shoulder- he does not nod, gives no indication to help you. You spoon another. Still nothing. You do another. The mask is unreadable and you wonder if he’s having you pour sugar into an empty mug for no reason. Well, there is a reason: because he can. You wonder if he smiles under his mask. You know he doesn’t. 

You add one more spoonful of sugar- deciding that if this time you still get no response, you’ll get out of his way so he can make his own coffee. But he does; in place of a nod Michael reaches for the creamer and puts it in front of you. You huff- at least this sort of unreasonableness you can deal with. It’s childish, but hey. It’s not showing up at your door with a bloodied knife or demanding to cum on you yet again. 

The thought of that has your hands shake as you pop the top to the creamer and pour in as much as you do. He nods this time and you finish his mug with dark coffee. He takes it without a word, without even stirring it, and returns to the living room. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Even as comfortable as you’ve become around him, his inner dangerousness is never lost on you. 

He’d tried to kill you while half-asleep in a fever dream. His urge to kill is strong- but you’re fairly sure you’ve come to understand what made him leave both nights. Each time, you’d threatened his power. The first, you had broken the peaceful little trance you’d lived in, taking care of a murderer without any idea of who he was. The second, you’d disobeyed him. 

He wanted to kill you those days- and he'd held the knife against your skin, had curled his hand around your throat.

But he didn't kill you.

You don’t even know if he knows why. But you think you know what drives you to keep letting him in, to keep bandaging him up despite the source of his injures. To let him crowd into your kitchen and silently demand you make his coffee while he stands there and watches. The self-hatred for daring the care about him is wearing off now, replaced by a warm and enjoyable acceptance. 

You stand in the entryway to the living room and watch as he rolls up the bottom of his mask and sips the steaming coffee. He recoils slightly and you want to scold him for it being too hot- but that won’t make him stop. He'd drink more just to spite you. Maybe he’ll let you kiss his burned tongue better later. 

You take your seat in the living room and give your drink a moment to cool so you don’t face the same tongue-burning as Michael. You watch the screen in silence and enjoy the silly animation he's let play. His presence, the shape on your couch, the soft sounds of him drinking, his low and steady breathing is all comforting, knowing you’re not alone in the house.

When he finishes his surely too-sweet coffee, he leaves the gray mug on the coffee table and rolls the latex down again. What is it about the mask that he needs? You’d much rather have that silvery-white scruff and scarred face than the blank, expressionless mask. It's not a matter of trust, you know that much- he let you take care of him without the mask. He’s even willingly taken it off for you twice now. Maybe one day he'd be comfortable enough to leave it off, or maybe he just likes how it makes you uncomfortable if you look at it too long.

You drink your coffee and watch Jerry elude another of Tom's swipes. 

Gravel sprays, grinding noises echoing up your driveway. Ice runs in your veins. The peace of the moment is gone, cold tension sparking every nerve. Your coffee sloshes in the cup as you struggle to set it down before you're up and dashing to the entryway. A glance through the peephole in your door confirms the worst possible scenario: a dark green Crown Vic pulls through the dust cloud.

Your voice is small and far away. “Michael.” He’s already standing behind you in the hallway. “Leave, out the back. I’ll talk with them.” You don’t wait for his confirmation, already twisting the deadbolt and stepping out onto your porch- pulling the door closed behind you.

_Please get out of here-_

Two men step out of the car, you recognize one with his icy, piercing gaze and short, dark hair. The other you don’t know- he’s stout with a young, round face, sandy blonde stubble peaks from under his nose. You steel yourself and do your best to find the same inner strength that controls Michael’s expression. It’s easier than you think and by the time the porch’s first step creaks under the first state policeman’s weight, you feel centered, grounded. All you have to do is buy time. 

“Morning, officers.” You greet, and manage to actually sound cordial. 

“Good morning.” The new man says. There’s no joy in his voice. “Mind if we step inside to talk?”

You hesitate- Michael should’ve left by now, but had you left anything out of place? He should be silent enough to sneak out even while you’re outside with them. You size them up and assert yourself. “We can speak right here.” 

“That’s fine for now.” The detective you met last time dismisses you. “You said the last time I was here you knew your neighbor, a Mr. Edward Morton?”

Your heart races, you lick your lips. Think of Michael and his cool, collected nature. “Not very well, mostly by reputation. I’ve only met him once."

Piercing Eyes answers. “Three nights ago he was murdered.” 

The catch in your breath isn’t fake- at last now you know who Michael had found that night that he'd wanted to kill you. “That’s horrible. What can I do to help?”

The new, short officer’s brow knits together. He glances to his partner as he speaks. “We’d, uh, actually like you to come with us and talk somewhere private.” 

It was all going to come crashing down now. You don't now how they know, but they do- all you can hope is that Michael is far enough away that they won't be able to track him. You'll never see him again- You can't hide the tremor in your voice, “Am I under arrest?”

Cool blue eyes bear down on you and you want to sink into the ground. “Should you be?”

You want to panic, want to jump off the side of your porch and sprint into the trees. But you can’t. You have to buy time, any second more that you can get before they have half the state police out here looking. Your palms sweat. You’ll go away for life. You open your mouth, try to think of something better than _Of course not_

You don’t realize what’s happening until it leaves your mouth as a light, strained, “Michael.”

The short one’s face screws up in confusion or disgust- the blue-eyed officer’s face lights up, ecstatic at your near confession. Neither of them follow your gaze, neither hear him, because he does not want to be heard.

The knife slides in near silently; the only noise is the short officer’s sudden wet gasp. His eyes grow wide and round, irises shrinking to tiny eclipses around huge pupils. Red bubbles around his mouth and he coughs-

You stumble back to your door. The other one turns, hand already reaching at his waist-

A huge hand wraps around the man’s throat and shoves him back into one of the columns around the stairs. He sputters- and something cracks in his throat. He stares, for the first time, into the lifeless latex. 

Michael angles his other hand and the shorter stranger slides off his blade and down the stairs. He lies face up, his mouth moving in silent prayer as blood erupts around him. The knife turns- and in one clean motion, Michael buries it into the chest of the detective. He gasps, beats weakly at Michael’s shoulders- and is rewarded with the sickening twist, steel scraping on bone that makes the man howl for only a moment.

The one on the ground grows quiet. 

And everything is silent except for Michael's heavy breathing and your shallow gasps. 

The shape of a man before you retrieves his knife- _your knife-_ and lets the detective slide down the wooden column, leaving a red stain on the wood. Gore drips from the blade, glinting off the shiny metal. You stare at it, watch as another thick drop splashes to the porch. 

_What would happen to you when he needs to move on?_ You knew the answer then.

Not even tears grace your face, shock driving all emotions from your body until you're left with only a numb acceptance. You close your eyes. _Just make it quick._

But the kiss of his blade doesn’t come. First, you only hear his breathing, muffled and yet amplified under the mask. Even the birds have stopped their chirping in the presence of a predator. And then a single creak of the old wood as he steps closer. 

You force your eyes open, flinching hard, your lip quivers. He stands there, still and solid. The knife is loose in his hand and drips slowly onto the wood- the wood you’d cleaned so recently. Your eyes drift up his body- taking in the sight of fresh, crimson bloodstains on the navy fabric. You’d cleaned so many out- and now you’ve seen them made. You find the mask. It’s clean for now, but you know it won’t be for long.

He doesn’t raise the blade, does not do anything more than stare down at you. You raise yourself up with the help of your door. Your knees shake under you. Your throat is dry and the words come out hoarse. “Are you going to kill me?”

The mask tilts precariously off to his right. It’s not a yes. It’s not a no, either. You swallow and try to reclaim some balance. For now, you have your safety to worry about. You live pretty far out of town, off the country highways and the trail up to your house is long enough- you should be able to clean up before anyone notices. You don’t know how long you’d have before the rest of the state police comes looking, though. And if they were here to arrest you… A chill runs down your spine. They were expected back. 

Your throat feels thick, “We have to get out. They’ll come looking.” Michael’s hand tightens around the knife. You shake your head. 

He steps closer again- your inhale is sharp, just edging onto a scream, tears finally burning at your eyes because _oh god, he’s going to kill me now_ and Michael turns the door knob behind you. You stumble back, into the entryway. Michael walks past you, uninterested. 

He takes a sharp right into the kitchen- and you hear the jingling of your keys. Right. Okay. Your thoughts race, and you shake, mumbling _”Okay, okay,”_ to yourself more than to him. You grab the first aid kit in your room and throw a change of clothes for yourself into a bag. What else did you need? What else could you carry? You blindly make it to the living room and grab your phone, charger, and wallet. You pull your shoes on without socks. Michael stands in the entrance to the kitchen, you pass him and open a drawer.

He watches, silent as ever but slowly tipping his head as you dig out a paperclip and begin to bend it straight. Your hands shake so much, it takes you several tries before you can wedge the end of the paperclip into the tiny hole on your phone. The SIM card pops out, so tiny and now malicious. 

You wish you could tell someone you were okay. But if they knew you were unharmed, they’d know you were with him. You were really doing this. You stuff the SIM card in your pocket, just in case. You stuff two rags into the messenger bag and look to him.

Shock truly sets in- Michael leads you from the house, walking past the bodies of the two officers without even looking at them. You don’t look either, but can’t suppress the whimper that escapes at the _splash_ of your foot coming off the last step. He doesn’t even look to you.

You wipe your shoes in the grass as best you can before climbing into your car. _Two sets of footprints_ your mind whispers. _They’ll know. They’ll know._ You can’t think about that now. You feel instead Michael’s jerky, imprecise control of your car- the jerk of him riding up on the parking brake, and finally reversing down your driveway, your house shrinking as you make it out to the road.

You don’t think you even closed the door.

You only drive twenty minutes before the neon sign catches you. The little second-hand shop should’ve just opened. “Hey, stop there.” You point. “Pull around back, there’s a big tree next to the dumpster.” He does so. It doesn’t occur to you until you’re already parked that it was odd he’d listened. 

You check the bag and grab your wallet. “I need to get you a change of clothes. You’ll attract a lot of attention looking like that. Just, stay here. I'll be fast.” 

You _are_ fast, even manage to avoid awkward chatter with the night owl opener who was too busy yawning to pay attention to your purchases. You give her a ten dollar bill and tell her to keep the change. You hope the clothes fit alright- but you don’t have time to complain if they don’t. 

You take the plastic bag back to the car- and don’t find a mask waiting for you. Instead, it’s warped and strange-looking on the center console. Michael stares at you, face bared to the world, from the driver’s seat. You close the door and nod to him you’re ready to keep going. Again, the start is a little choppy, but it gets better once he makes it back to the road. 

You don’t really think about where he’s going. If it was you at the wheel, you’d jump on an interstate and drive until you needed gas, then maybe drive some more. But Michael seems to have a destination in mind- and that’s alright. Your brain needs the rest from thinking, so you watch as the scenery outside your window changes from your sweet, quiet town to long, empty fields where the season’s corn has already been harvested. It’s quiet. He doesn’t turn on the radio, does not speak to you, does not even look away from the long, gray expanse of highway. You don’t even know what direction you’re heading. Would he go north or south? Or get out of Illinois altogether? 

You doubted that- escape twice only to go back to his hometown? He won’t go far. A big, blue-painted sign catches your attention- and the little square under it that presents in big, block lettering: _ATM_

You don’t have to say anything- Michael already pulls into the right lane to take the exit to the rest area. The road curls, presents a breakaway for runaway trucks, and then curls again into a cement monolith surrounded by a massive parking lot. Two semis were already pulled in close. Michael chooses a spot in the far corner and turns off the car. 

“Gonna grab some money.” You say, already unbuckling yourself and walking briskly to the center. You shiver and dread that you did not grab one of your jackets. Jackets you’d probably never see again. In your house that- You shove it down. Not useful. You need to take out your money right now, figure out how much you have left in your savings and what all you could do with that. 

The rest stop is almost vacant; a mother carries a whining child into the women’s bathroom, a trucker sits outside smoking and checking his phone. You ignore them to go straight for the ATM. It beeps as you slide in your card- giving you a pop up that you’d have a fee. 

You double check your balance and grimace at the meager remainder of your money. It would have to be enough- or really, it would have to be enough to start. You have a strong hunch on how Michael survives outside of Smith’s Grove and sooner or later it would come back to that. You withdraw it all and the machine spits out six fresh, crisp twenties. 

You fold them and shove them into your pocket- and find the SIM card. You pull it out and look at it, the tiny little silicone chip that stored so much personal information. You open your phone just to double check the warning message- _No SIM Card Installed_. Your hand trembles as you put away your phone, but carry the SIM card in your palm. Out front, the trucker has moved on to calling someone, ranting about hour limitations. The mother and child have not returned yet, and there’s only one other normal car in the parking lot: a maroon minivan with a little stick figure family stuck to the rear window- a stickman, a stickwoman (which was only a stickman with a skirt), and a small stickgirl with a little stickdog following behind. You place the SIM card behind one tire and walk away. 

The trucker has not noticed. You keep your eyes down. A man trots through the center of the rest stop and hurriedly pushes open the men’s room door. You return the way you came- and find a black truck with peeling paint parked a half-dozen spots away from your car. The driver’s side door is ajar. Your car is empty. 

Your car is empty, the driver’s side door left ajar. Alarms ring in your head- _your car is empty-_ until you hear the soft sound of a zipper being pulled up. You wish he’d just stopped to pee, but you have a sinking suspicion there's something more. Michael hikes up the incline to the parking lot with easy steps despite his sprained ankle. Your breath catches in your throat.

You’ve never seen him in normal clothes. He looks good- the black tee you’d grabbed is just a touch too tight and clings to his chest, the jeans a good enough fit. You can see plain enough he’s half-hard and as you look down further you can see why. He wears the same blood-soaked boots and just past the edge of the embankment, tucked into some bushes, is a man’s body. 

Michael carries his filthy coveralls in one hand and throws them into the tiny backseat of the truck. You grab your bag and his mask and climb up into the passenger's side. He turns the key, the old truck's engine struggles to turn over, and the radio plays country. He turns it off before you make it back out to the highway. 

He must have a specific destination in mind- he follows exits to switch highways that only bring you further and further out into empty miles of farmland. You can’t complain. The truck is louder than your car and the rushing sound of air slipping through the old frame is more comforting than you want to admit. You can almost imagine you're just taking a day trip somewhere, the first time you'd go out with him.

The sun reaches its zenith and beats down on the old truck, the light glinting off the exposed metal of the hood. You don’t know how far you’ve made it, but the barren fields give way to gas stations and then to a tiny hamlet of a town. Michael pulls off the highway at a green sign labeled _Crestview_ and within minutes you find yourself in the middle of a pleasant, quiet residential district. Michael slows and drifts through the streets. 

He’s hunting for something. You scan the long rows of houses- it’s midday, there’s no one out, no teens for Michael to hunt. Maybe he’s looking for shelter, somewhere to stay for awhile- you don’t even want to know where he stays of his own free will. But you let him circle, let him scope out whatever it is he needs to see- including slowing to a crawl past a tiny house with a weathered and half knocked-over _FOR SALE_ sign stuck in the yard. 

You wonder who owns it, how hard it was to sell a house in a town that hardly makes it to the map. It’s not a pretty building; clearly built in the fifties and aged poorly with pastel brickwork and a little raised cement porch with spray-painted white metal chairs on it. There’s a wire fence along the side, backed up to a wooden fence, and only a tiny decorative gate stands between Michael and getting in. 

But there’s a dinginess to the windows, the curtains out of place- you doubt what’s inside is anything close to livable. 

“There’s probably a motel.” You offer. You see one blue-gray iris slide to you. “I have enough money for tonight, at least.” 

You think he’ll reject the idea and you’ll silently accept the fact that being on the run with a wanted murderer means giving up basic luxuries. Like a bed, probably. Michael has stared you down at the foot of your bed too much for you to even entertain the thought of him getting more than three hours of sleep normally. 

But the truck jerks forward and you begin to slide through residential streets and back out toward the highway. A seriously dilapidated sign features half a sun rising over a blue background, the text a barely legible _Sunny Side Inn._ Michael does not pull in- instead, he passes it and pulls into a parking lot four lots down. You want to thank him, but you doubt he'd even care.

You make sure everything you have is in your bag- and grimace at the sight of Michael reaching into the back to obtain the coveralls. The blood has at least dried by now, but you’re still loath to put them in with your clean clothes. But what choice did you have? You go to grab for his mask as well, but he’s faster- pulling it close to him before you can touch it. 

He’s unreadable as you search his face for meaning, but don't fight him on it. He still wants whatever it is the mask gives him, you just hope he doesn't wear it out in the open. You stuff the coveralls into your bag and pull the zipper. He does not turn off the engine, does not even make a motion to get out.

“Ditching the car?” You guess and are rewarded with only silent stares. You sigh and nod to yourself- if he hasn’t left you on the side of the road, if he hasn't _killed you_ yet, he must still have some interest in protecting both of you. You get out, climbing down the running board and out onto the roughed-up concrete. You step away from the truck and watch Michael through the window- he stares at you for a long moment, then turns back to the steering wheel and the truck jerks forward and pulls away. 

You turn away and walk through the parking lots- passing by a breakfast joint that was surprisingly busy and a McDonald’s that had more cars in the drive thru. You don't make eye contact with any of the patrons. The third lot is some kind of shop with sunflowers painted in the window and a sign in curly letters that reads _Chloe’s_ but you can’t make out anything discernible in the darkened windows. 

The motel has a faded baby blue paint job, making it look ghostly and pale now; the roof used to be painted a canary yellow and has actually fared better than the bricking. The complex can’t have more than twenty rooms, set up as two blocks of rooms in a single line with only a small break in the middle for a breezeway.

The office is small, but a neon _open_ sign hums and invites you in. The door jingles as you open it and inside you’re greeted with carpet that has not been changed since the eighties and has not been cleaned since the nineties, long-ingrained stains camouflaging with the ancient brown patterning. You nudge the fibers apart with your foot and make the disturbing discovery that the roots of the carpet are actually _orange._

“Can I help you?” You jump, and find yourself facing a young man with thick-rimmed glasses and a cluster of acne over his cheeks behind a fake wood counter. A black polo hangs ill-fitted and wrinkly around his shoulders, but bears no name tag.

“I need a room.” Your voice wavers, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“One or two beds?”

You hesitate, thumb at the hem of your sweater. “One.” 

“Cool.” He says, types something into a computer behind the counter. The keyboard is old enough to click loudly as he types. “That’ll be fifty-nine dollars and-”

You thumb out three twenties and offer them. 

“Who uses cash anymore?” He mumbles, but takes the bills and sticks them in a register, counting out a handful of coins for you. From a rack of keys on the wall, each hung with a big plastic key chain with a number on it- of which only the six is missing- he gives you nineteen. That’s fine. Far from the road. 

“Check out’s at eleven, coffee’s available from five to ten.” He drones on in a clearly practiced script, motioning weakly to a little table with a big coffee pot, currently empty. “If you need any help, there’s a placard on the side table.” 

You thank him in a small voice, and he responds only with a “uh-huh” and opening his phone behind the counter. The door jingles as you leave. You squint at the daylight reflecting off the concrete. It should be warmer for how bright it is outside, but considering Michael had apparently dragged you through northern Illinois, there’s no soothing spring sun coming any time soon. 

You walk along the strip of motel rooms, finding a little blue compact parked squarely in front of the room labeled six with a lopsided metal symbol that had once been properly screwed in pace. Nineteen is, of course, all the way at the end- second only to twenty, which sits vacant. Maybe you should’ve asked for twenty. Maybe that would've drawn unwanted attention.

The key turns the lock and you step inside to the same orange-brown carpeting that’s been severely worn near the door. The bed, pressed up against the corner furthest from the door is in better condition. The comforter is a pale yellow with floral rose print, stiff with too much starch, but the sheets underneath are satisfyingly crisp and a shockingly clean white. 

You sigh and lay down. And for the first time all the emotions you had shoved aside break free. Anxiety rushes over you first; tears bursting from your eyes- a sob rips from your throat. You clamp your hands over your face and press your eyes closed, but it’s too late. You shake as another sob is caught in your throat and you _mourn._ Your life is gone. It’s over. Everything you’ve ever known, your _house-_

Had the police already torn your house apart? Had they found the week's worth of dirty bandages? Would they question your family? Where can you go now? 

You wrap your arms around yourself and roll to face away from the door, pull the blankets up around your shoulders. The sheets aren’t terribly warm, but the pressure feels good. You wish he was here- at least you wouldn’t feel so completely alone against the world.

You cry for a while, reason it as being good for you, a natural reaction, and probably better to do while Michael is out. All were true, of course, but the reality was that you couldn’t have stopped the onslaught of tears if you tried. So you lie in a cheap motel bed until your eyes hurt and there's no more tears and you shake. 

The too-early dusk is already approaching through the curtained window when you roll onto your back and fish out the remote from the drawer. The television is old, a big box CRT-type and the reception is as fuzzy as expected. You never expected to be so excited for boring daytime TV. A soap opera is on; a glamorous countess recalls her tumultuous relationship with a drifter. 

You watch, sniffling, as the show gets more dramatic- a doctor cries over a lost patient and a woman plots her revenge on the countess. It's stupid and somehow that's nice. It’s something other than your life.

The show ends on a cliffhanger of a character you don’t know returning home and as the end theme plays, you realize you’ve made a very vital mistake: Michael is still not here. He doesn’t know what room you’re in, he doesn't have the key. 

You’re sure he could figure it out; he’s painfully observant. But doing so may risk more lives if he runs into trouble. 

You don’t need more blood on your conscience. You can prevent that. 

You rub your face dry and grab the room key and step back outside. The cool air irritates your red, itchy eyes. The setting sun casts long shadows parallel with the rows of rooms, two more cars have materialized in the parking lot- neither of them are old, worn-down, black trucks which is _good,_ you think. You look around and find no other people out. Past the entrance, even the country highway is empty- not a single car passes as you stand there. 

Maybe he’s keeping his distance for now. Or maybe he’s behind the building, waiting for a sign from you? You nearly trip just walking again, but you make it to the end of the row. Beyond that the parking lot curves around to go fully behind the motel row, followed by a thin strip of grass and a chain link fence. On the other side of that is a vacant lot, overgrown with yellow-brown weeds. You look around there too, but find nothing. No very still old men or curious white masks lingering. 

You pick at the hem of your shirt and start around the back of the motel. More empty concrete greets you. From this side you can see the strange boutique and beyond that the McDonald’s which still sports three cars in the parking lot. The breakfast place even further seems to have shut down for the day; the lights are off and you see no cars or people around. Not even Michael. 

You bite at your lip and fight the panic truly starting to surge through your system. What if he didn’t come back? What if he had one of those dark urges while he was getting rid of the car? You steel yourself and keep walking around the perimeter. The backside of the motel has air conditioning units lined up one after another, each tied into the one in the rooms, each surrounded by tan gravel that’s spilled out onto the cement of the sidewalk and the road. The little breezeway that separates the two sections of rooms is empty, save for a small trash can with an ashtray on top. 

You make it all the way up to the office and find a tiny beat-up looking gray Camry that has to be at least fifteen years old. A variety of colorful baubles hangs from around the rear view mirror. Probably the clerk’s. 

As you approach the highway, it occurs to you that you actually have no idea where you are. The other side of the highway has a gas station with truck parking- one semi with a purple trailer sits half-visible, some kind of automotive garage sits to the right. The quiet town is off behind that.

You round around the front, pass under the sunshiney sign. The office’s curtains are pulled open, inside the clerk has headphones in and is bobbing along to some unknown rhythm. You watch and wonder if this is how Michael stalks, the clerk entirely unaware of your presence. A white and black car rolls along the frontage road- you gasp and back off behind the motel long before it pulls into the parking lot. The police car is near silent, no lights or sirens playing- but it cuts a sharp turn and parks in front of the office. 

You press your back up to the painted brick and close your eyes, try to focus on calming your heart down. Maybe they weren’t here for you. You head back down the walkway- you’d just go hide in your room. Nowhere else to hide out here, really- at best you could lay down in the weeds in that vacant lot, but you’d have to climb or circumvent the fence. And if they weren’t here for you, you might only draw attention to yourself. Your hands shake, you wish Michael was here.

You pass by the breezeway-

An iron arm closes around your middle, a hand covers your mouth- reaches all the way from one side of your jaw to the other. You can’t even scream, too shocked to even fight- until you’re pulled back against a wide chest. That shouldn’t make your eyes close, shouldn’t make you melt back against him in relief. You touch his wrist, but he doesn’t let go of your chin.

Instead he turns you in his arms- and presses you up against one brick wall, his palm still held over your lips. He steps in close to you, traps you between his arms. You expect the scruffy beginnings of his white beard- and get only white latex. Without his coveralls, the effect is much stranger- before his shape under the thick mechanic’s fabric was completely obscured, but now you can see the soft curves of his biceps, the shape of his chest. And still, the mask hides his face. 

You stiffen, pat at his wrist again- he tilts his head, but moves his hand down to your shoulder. You whisper, “The cops are here.” 

He straightens, his fingers closing tighter around your shoulder. Michael moves off towards the front of the breezeway, towards the parking lot- and you know that tension in his shoulders, the heavy presence that radiates off him. He’ll be seen. It’s still light out, it’s in public, there’s too many people- he's going to get caught, you'll lose him-

You panic, grab his arm- he spins to you, his hand ready to push you back to the wall- and you surge upwards. 

He shoves you back, the impact knocks the air from your chest. There’s copper on your lips, the bitter taste of dirt and latex lingering as you stare up at him. You can count your heartbeats as he holds you there- you wonder if he’ll kill you for stepping over some invisible, undisclosed boundary. His right hand locks just under your jaw, forces your chin up. With his left he grabs the mask by its hair and tugs it off in three pulls-

He drops the mask beside him. His eyes are _burning-_ you can hardly breathe. You’ve ruined it this time. But there’s no tightening of his hand at your throat, no cracking of the delicate bones there. 

There’s no warning. His mouth crashes against yours, nose colliding painfully and making you gasp. Michael takes advantage. He’s messy, unpracticed, but all-consuming. He bites at your lips with the same ferocity he’d shown your neck, pulling at the thin skin until you’re whimpering, grabbing at his arms. His tongue dips into your mouth, demands control as he tastes you properly. Stubble scraps across your chin and cheeks, only making the skin more sensitive.

All you can do is take it- he gives you no other choice. With one hand at your throat, you can’t even chase him, can hardly tip your head to seek his mouth in return. Your lips quiver, and he finds them again, incisors sliding off and plumping your lips further as you shake. The warmth resurges in full force between your legs- and Michael steps closer, presses the full length of his body against you, traps you between lean muscle and hard brick. He’s hard again, through the denim he’s pressed up against your hip. 

You can hardly manage a soft, desperate _”Michael.”_ He growls, deep and low and it resonates in your core. Your nails bite into his arms and you beg against his teeth, _”Please, please,”_

He leans away- you strain against his palm to follow him. His breathing is still so steady and even, as you’re coming undone already. You tremble against him and he is unfazed, staring down at you. The only hint of reaction lies in his pupils: black nearly consuming the icy blue. 

His switches hands- his left holding you in place while his right slips down between your bodies. You want to cry- he’s going to touch himself, find his cock in his pants and make you watch as he finds relief _again._ But he only steps to the side, grinds up against the right side of your hips- as his right hand pops open the button to your jeans.

You stiffen, inhale sharply, “Michael, no.” His thumb presses down over over your jugular and silences any further protests. He works your zipper down with the other hand and cold November air makes your skin prickle. Your vision narrows, a fogginess making your head feel light- and his hand loosens. You blink and try to regain your balance, too aware of the motion of his hips, the heat pressed against you. You whimper, fight back embarrassed tears as his fingers slide along the outside of your panties, cupping the warmth and wetness they find. 

Your body moves of its own accord, rocking down against his hand. You swear, for only a fraction of a moment, one corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. His hand slides back up and you want to whine at the loss of what little sensation you had- until he’s slipping under the elastic hem and you can feel the full warmth of his hand against you. Your mind wants him to stop, you’re so exposed out here, and yet every nerve in your body is set alight, your legs spreading to welcome him closer. 

His middle finger dips between your lips, skates right off the top of your clit- your mouth falls open, your head lolling back against the wall. Michael seems to like that- he ducks his head and you find teeth on your neck again. They don’t sink in this time, but his bites are still demanding, leaving dark impressions over the healing bruises on your throat. 

His fingers dancer further, their exploration made easy with the slickness that seeps out from deep inside. He roams, following some unseen pattern, dipping and circling near your entrance, dragging the wetness there back up to nudge at your clit. You whimper, push against his hips in a silent plea. You don’t know what you want- the teasing pleasure, drawing out this heat as long as he has feels so good, your whole existence shrinking down to a burning need, or for him to push his cock into you and claim you, to take what he’s wanted since he first met you. 

He bumps against your clit again- you shudder through an inhale. You can feel him pause in his nips, his hot breath cascades over your sensitive skin- and he brushes against your clit again. You bite your lip and do your best to turn away from him. He seems to understand now- he fingers center over your clit and circle, slow drawn-out traces around it until you’re writhing in his grasp, bucking under him as he bites again. It feels good- so fucking good, pleasure tingling inside you and yet you’re so far, impossibly far from the edge. Your nails cut into his arms, your hips lifting in a frantic, useless attempt for him to touch you how you need. 

Instead, his hand slides lower- even further away from your aching, swollen clit. You whimper, but he nudges into your entrance. And he waits there, even ceases biting at your neck again- you already know what he wants. 

Your voice is hardly more than a breath. _”Please, Michael.”_

He pushes in- his hand finds your mouth before you can moan, the noise muffled and warped by his palm. His finger is so much bigger than yours and moves unskillfully- moving inside you only once before withdrawing. You breathe in throughout his fingers, ready to spit another string of cries-

He pushes two fingers into you. The stretch burns in just the right way, filling you more than you’ve ever done to yourself. You buck, a strangled noise slipping between your lips and his fingers. Michael leans in close, scruff scratching your cheek, lips just brushing your ear. 

It’s low and deep and quiet, but unquestionably there: Michael shushes you. You whimper, pinch your eyes closed and try to calm down. It’s hard when he’s knuckle-deep and grinding against you. He must deem you quieted enough, because his hand leaves your mouth to slide into your hair and _twist-_

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, claw at his arms and _don’t make a noise._ You can nearly hear the laugh in his breath before his teeth sink into the tender skin of your neck, his fingers beginning to move inside you. You can’t stop the panting breaths that escape, but you choke down everything more than a soft whimper, the quietest praise for his touch- and even with so little you can give him, his fumbling, naive touch becomes more intentional. Each time he curls his fingers, each time he finds some special, hidden thing, your breath catches. He notices. He remembers, seeking out that place with each motion.

A groan slips past his teeth, quiet- as though he wants to hold it in his chest- and he grinds harder against you until you’re sure he’s bruised the skin just above your hip. He has to be close now; if he’s been aroused since the truck stop, he can’t last much longer. The thought scares you; he hasn’t cared much if you finish in the past, even stopped you when you tried for yourself. 

You clench down on his fingers, try to close your eyes, focus on the sensations he brings you- the deep pleasure that echoes inside, the scrape of his teeth down your neck and shoulder, nudging your sweater aside to bite where your throat meets shoulder. But it’s not enough; the heel of his palm is just too far off, the pressure not quite right on your clit for you to be able to rise up to that peak. Your lip trembles, you pull him closer- want to beg to let you cum, to please, please, make you cum-

He ruts hard against your hip, presses you into the wall and you can hardly bear it-

Past your own frantic breath you hear it. A gasp. Michael goes deathly still, barely pulls away from your neck. You snap your head to the left- out at the back side of the motel, a figure stands at the edge of the breezeway. Thin and gangly, you recognize the clerk’s voice, equal parts disgusted and not actually that shocked. “Fucking, _come on,_ dude.” 

You push Michael back, just enough to make his hand slip free. You immediately miss the fullness, but you’re spitting a quick and barely sincere “Sorry,” before you can contemplate that. You pull Michael away before he can consider anything serious- barely giving him enough time to claim the dropped mask on the ground. You don’t even rezip your pants. A quick glance at the parking lot tells you the cop car is long gone. Good. Perfect.

He follows you- and all you can focus on is the eyes burning into you, the weighted gaze on your back as you fumble with the keys in your pocket, shaking so hard you miss the keyhole the first time. But you get the door open, and stumble inside. 

Michael turns the deadbolt behind him. There’s no use pretending this time. You’ve denied yourself enough. You don’t think he’d let you if you tried. 

He stalks towards you. Slow. Methodical. You expect his eyes to dip to your heaving chest, your still exposed underwear, but they don’t. He stares into you- all his quiet intensity, the mesmerizing gaze locking eyes with you as you step backwards. When your knees hit the mattress you scoot back and kick your shoes off, leaving them at the foot of the bed. 

His knee presses into the mattress and makes it dip. It’s all you can do to pull of your shirt as fast as you can, shimmying out of your pants and throwing them somewhere towards the television. 

You reach for the hem of your underwear- already embarrassingly wet- and his hands catch your wrists. You whimper, think again of how he had so cruelly denied you while sick- and his weight comes forward, so easily pins your hands beside your head. He watches you for a moment, the trembling at your hands, your quivering lips, before he pulls both hands above you and holds them with one massive hand. His left hand.

The right comes before you- and presses to your mouth. The smell of your own arousal floods your nose. You lick at his fingers- and are rewarded with his eyes dipping to half-lidded for a moment. He presses against your lips, forces his way into your mouth. His fingers are so big they fill you, bump awkwardly against your teeth, but he doesn't seem to mind. You suck, wind your tongue between the digits as you clean them. It’s sweet, thick, and flavorful- mixed with a bitter tang that lingers under his nails. You whimper, push your hips up against him- he retaliates by pressing his fingers down on your tongue, holding it there as you try to lick and tease him. 

He slides his fingers forward, off your tongue as you lap at the tops. He pulls down, pushes your teeth into your jaw- and he forces your mouth open. Watches as your pink tongue licks your own slick off his fingers. It must be enough.

He pulls the two fingers free and wipes them obscenely on your chest, the saliva cooling quickly on your skin. Without looking away from you, his hand finds the hem of your underwear. You lift your hips so he can work them down and off your legs; Michael as other ideas. His fingers twist in the thin fabric over your left hip and _tug_ \- a cascade of seams pop and leave the clothing utterly ruined, but not off you just yet. His eyes narrow, his hand closes entirely around it-

It doesn’t survive a second rip. The fabric shears, gives way under his strength. Only then do his eyes wander away from your face, meandering all the way down your torso. His thumb slips between plump labia, spreading your pussy open as he looks closer at you. You shiver under him and wonder if he can tell just how wet you are. From the easy slide of his thumb, he must know. 

Only then does he let go of your wrists and begin to lean away. You start to sit up, to help him undress- and his hands are on you again, pressing you firmly into the mattress. The same warning he’d given you before; he wants you still. You nod your understanding, keep your hands above your head as he sits back on his heels, nestled right between your knees, and watches you, slowly cocks his head to one side. 

You want to close your legs under the heat of his gaze, the muscles of your thighs traitorously trembling against him. He doesn’t mind- you think he likes how he can make you shake with only a look. Even his patience does not last. You’re disappointed but not exactly surprised as he pops the button to the jeans and unzips, hardly working the denim down at all.

He’s painfully hard, the tip scarlet with need, cloudy wetness from his precum already smeared across it. He takes himself in hand, strokes slow and tight from root to tip, darkening the head for a moment, squeezing another droplet to the surface. He could finish himself right there- leave his cum on you again, mark you, bring you so close to finishing and still keep all the pleasure for himself.

You bite your lip hard and push away tears of desperation. He notices, a momentary tightening around his eyes betraying his observation. You inhale and try to control the shudder in your voice- and still can barely manage anything more than "Michael, please,” He stares on, says nothing with his face. You whimper, cheeks burning and fight to push any words out. “Please, I- I need it.” 

His hand stills. He leans forward again, left hand winding into your hair as he leans over you. Warmth radiates off his body, but his eyes are cool and distant now that he’s in control. He waits for a moment before tightening his grip, pulling your head back. You whimper and he lets go. He stares at you, waits for _something_ that you don’t know- he wants you to say something. 

You can hardly breathe, your mouth dropping open, lips trembling. You want to please him, want him to move on, to touch you, to do _something,_ but the words flee your mind, your voice trailing off into a futile keen. He pulls your hair again and you’re ready to sob in frustration- 

His breath is hot on your ear; the sudden sensation makes you jerk, pain lighting across your scalp. His voice is near hoarse from disuse, graveling and quiet- only for you. It’s not compassion that drives him, not a genuine desire to know. _He already knows._ “Tell me.”

You do sob, press your eyes closed so you don’t have to look at him anymore. “You! I need you, Michael. _Please,_ I-”

His right hand slides under the back of your leg, lifts and spreads you open. He shifts forwards properly until you can feel the heat of him on your inner thighs and then even closer. He sits up again, leaving his left hand to press your sternum down, keeping you flat on the mattress. You whimper, twist your hands into the sheets. Satisfied you aren’t going to move, his hand leaves your leg and returns between you- 

His other hand finds your hip, thumb pressing cruelly into the sensitive skin where he’d been rutting against you. 

You open your eyes- and find him waiting. Just so he could watch your face as his cock slides against you, presses at your entrance before slipping up, the underside rubbing wetly on your clit. You bite down on your lip until you taste copper, will yourself to watch. He doesn’t look away and this time he doesn’t miss. 

He presses in and he’s just barely too big and you’re just barely too tight, but you’re so wet it doesn’t matter. He slips in, pain and pleasure and the addicting sensation of being just so _full_ of him rush over you, each sensation too strong for you to focus on anything except the fact that _Michael Myers was inside you-_

And with the tip in, it’s easy for him to pull you close, to sink deeper and deeper until you’re seeing stars, your mind shutting down, everything in you overwhelmed at the intrusion, at this part of yourself you’ve been missing. He presses against something deep inside, a pressure just this side of uncomfortable behind your navel- but it’s not enough. Both hands settle on your hips, keep you still as he drives against it. You choke on a noise, feel him push against you until his hips slot against yours. 

Your discomfort does not even cross his mind. He withdraws halfway- the drag alone has your walls singing- and he ruts back into you, pries you back open, spearing you on his cock. It hurts and he fills you and you want _more-_

You don’t even realize your arms have moved until his painful grasp has left your hips. He captures them again with one hand and holds them against your stomach. There’s an edge to his gaze, a tip of anger that you did not obey. You whimper, want to beg forgiveness- he exacts his punishment. 

His right hand finds your throat again, keeps just enough of his weight on you to keep you pinned firmly under him. Michael’s hips drive into you with sadistic force, slamming into you with utter disregard. You cry out, squeeze your legs against his sides- but you can’t resist him. If he only wants to hurt you, he doesn’t succeed. Even with bruising thrusts and his iron grip of your wrists, the motion still fills you, still jabs at the sensitive place his fingers had found, his body still rubs at your clit. 

The mix of sharp pain and persistent, continuous pleasure makes your head spin, writhing weakly under him. Michael’s thrusts slow, ease off- and you can barely crack your eyes open to find his head tipped again. He rolls his hips forward again, almost experimentally- still demanding, but less intentionally hurtful. You moan, clench around him- and he repeats the motion, harder. This time it makes you flinch, moan louder, a deep ache mixed in. He’s not satisfied he’s learned what he wants to know yet, and presses your wrists down against your torso. That’s all the warning he gives before returning to that bruising, forceful drive of his hips that bounces painfully off the wall deep inside you, avoiding the pleasurable push against your front wall. 

You cry out sharply, your legs snapping against his sides, even managing to lift your head off the mattress in protest before being slammed back down under his weight. Tears bead at your eyes- and his thumb strokes just under your jaw. You prepare for the next sadistic thrust, prepare for the very real possibility that that’s just how he would fuck you-

But his hips roll forward, still piercing you deep, but finally finding what you need. It’s still forceful, still makes you slide on the sheets- your inner thighs will be purple tomorrow, but after the truly cruel aim before, he’s practically gentle. But there’s something more: he uses his grasp on your wrists to pull you closer, to force your hips up onto his knees so you’re barely tilted upwards. 

He drives in again- you close your eyes, lightning pleasure between your legs steals the air from your lungs, silences the cry in your throat. And Michael does it again. You gasp this time, writhe under him on instinct, open your eyes to tell him, somehow, what he’s doing to you. But the curious, observant tilt of his head over you tells you he already knows. He does it again, and this time you cry out, sharp and high, a knot forming in your belly. 

His hand closes around your throat. Your eyes roll, struggling to stay focused on Michael, the world shifts in and out of focus, darkness lurking at the edges. He fucks you, uses your wrists to keep you close, keeps careful control of himself even as he begins to pant. He’s meticulous, each motion controlled, unrelenting as your world dips in and out of existence, the raw pleasure of his cock inside you driving all rational thought away. 

You pull at your hands weakly and the hand at your throat loosens just enough for you to gasp in greedy lungfuls of air. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you catch your breath before taking it again with another thrust that makes you wail for him. You can feel it now, burning inside you, the sparks that race along your skin. 

His hand closes at your throat again and you can’t even find the words to beg properly. Your head swims, voice lost as you can barely hear yourself whispering his name over and over. A chant in worship, pleading with a capricious deity for mercy, _”Michael, Michael, Michael…”_ until what little air that makes it to your lungs is not enough. 

Your world darkens- and goes white; unbridled pleasure washes over you, makes you spasm against his holds, clench hard around his cock. Your mouth drops open- if he hadn’t already choked you to near unconscious, you would’ve screamed. He doesn’t stop through it, keeps driving the pleasure higher, drags it out longer until you’re nearly crying, begging for him to stop. 

The world is blurred, distant- and his hips become more forceful, more _demanding-_ you seek his face through growing tears and see why. The intensity of his gaze is back, an unspoken command hidden behind his eyes. And he would make you would obey whether you wanted to or not. He gives you no break, no chance to object- 

And his hand leaves your throat. You almost mistake it for mercy before it settles between you, his thumb finding your clit. It’s too much; the sensation makes you jerk under him- and when he doesn’t stop, you actually try to fight. You can’t cry out, the pleasure is too sharp, unfiltered, filling your mind with the painful edge of something just too good- and he drags you unwilling towards the edge again.

Tears fall across your cheeks and sob as you clench around him again. He watches, completely enraptured as your face screws up, mouth dropping open in a stifled cry. Without his hand at your throat you’re aware through it all, able to squirm and gasp and whine- breaking out into weak begging before his hands finally, _finally_ grab at your hips again. 

He gives you no warning- only drives into you with that painful force. Two orgasms make you ever more sensitive, but the dopamine swirling in your head dulls the pain. You watch, almost distant, as he curls over you, fingers digging into your hips to make you meet each thrust. He groans, long and low and you want to hear that noise forever, want to see how his brow knits in pleasure. 

His eyes close, every muscle in his face going slack- there’s a stutter to his hips. Warmth fills you from the inside out as he marks you deep inside. He struggles to keep fucking you, to keep riding out his own pleasure. He looks serene, his lashes flutter on his cheeks before lifting half-way. He stares down at you with fogged, unseeing eyes. 

You reach up to him and find he doesn’t fight when you pull him down to you. He does not complain when you draw him into a kiss, only nips at your lips once. He doesn’t withdraw, keeps himself inside you as long as he can. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders- and he pulls you closer. He only really shifts to stretch his legs out and finally move onto his side. All the while, he doesn’t let go of you. 

He blinks slowly, and it’s almost painfully vulnerable to watch them close as sleep takes him. You can’t complain. Little shivers of residual pleasure linger in your abdomen, but you move closer to him, lay your head on his bicep, and close your eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to everyone who's not a fan of that secretly-kind-of-gooey-center Michael. He's still an absolute bastard, but he can no longer deny that Reader has a particularly unique place in his life.
> 
> Double apologies to everyone who's hardcore Team Michael Never Talks.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six weeks. You shake your head, press the warm plastic directly to your belly. The muscles there begin to relax and you watch as a talk show begins. Six weeks and finally it would all be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all can forgive me for posting this just a little early ;)
> 
> Please double check the new tags, this chapter might be dysphoria inducing for some people as it heavily features menstruation.

You stand on your porch and kick the rug back into place. The wind last night had turned up one corner and dragged it just far enough to not hide the staining beneath. You sip your coffee and drag a chair over to hold down the troublesome corner with one leg. 

It’s not a pretty thing- just a brown woven mat that covers between the stairs and your front door. You’d taken the time to paint your stairs- and the columns on each side a fresh, fetching blue, but painting your whole porch would be much harder. So you didn’t bother. You’d scrubbed it down with bleach to remove as much as you could and eventually gave in and just bought the rug to cover what you couldn’t scrub free. Which was a lot. 

If you squint you can make out the road through the white blankets of snow. You’re sure there’s a dark green car nestled up on the shoulder of the country highway with two freezing people inside, one with binoculars pressed up to the glass. You’d spoken with them a week ago, even brought them hot cocoa as a peace offering. They’re just there to remind you now. 

It’s freezing out, long icicles hang from the roof over your porch and the handrails. But you stand there, warm your hands on your cup and peer out into the distance. You want something other than a forest green sedan. You want to see something other than a tan hat peeking over the snow mounds when one of them has to piss. So you stand there and scan the trees, hope the eyes you feel on you are not just the police’s.

The wind kicks up and you shiver, duck back inside before your coffee cools too much. January had arrived with a vengeance, bitter cold and unpleasant and with a violent snowstorm. It had snowed again two days ago, the perfect fields untouched around your house. Not a single set of footprints maring the pristine surface.

You had no need to leave now. Your house was back in working order, save for some items the police kept under lock and key in hopes that Michael Myers would turn up again. 

The idea of Michael in court- maybe even trussed up in a suit- made you smile. 

You settle onto your couch, curled up in one corner as you flick the television on. You rub at another painful cramp in your belly as the static fades. The news plays, an update on the families of four fallen officers. A man weeps and recalls his husband’s bravery and valor and the horrors of not even being granted an open casket for closure. It changes to a woman speaking about her brother, you recognize her. 

She’d lain flowers at the end of your porch one morning. When you stepped out she startled and something dangerous flashed in her eyes. She kept it reigned in and curtly explained herself and left. She hasn’t returned. The yellow flowers she’d left are frozen solid, preserved in ice.

In the end, you were tried only in the court of public opinion. 

_”Simply not enough evidence.”_ The district attorney had said, gritting out the words. There was outrage; two men had been murdered on your doorstep, a murderer’s fingerprints all over your house. Blood soaked deep into every crevice of your home. You were complicit. 

You are complicit. 

Hateful letters appeared in your mailbox for the first week- sometimes worse. 

And then it leaked. Some broken-hearted nurse somewhere dropped your medical evaluation online. 

Paragraphs upon paragraphs of dutiful descriptions of the bruises, new and old, on your arms, neck, hips, and thighs. The half-healed perfect impression of Michael Myers’ teeth on your shoulders, your chin. Invasive, personal details- inflamed, bruised cervix. Scrawled in nearly unreadable doctors’ handwriting: _Definite proof of insemination._

And after it all, there were pictures. At least the nurse had conveniently excluded the more revealing photos. But even the initial exam had been damning. Your eyes were glazed over and far away, empty. Too easy to mistake one kind of trauma for another. 

Blues and purples ringed your wrist and neck like gaudy jewelry. Amateur internet detectives even outlined on your neck the shape of Michael’s hands where he’d choked you, pinpointing the exact places where his fingers met at the back of your neck. 

The outrage turned overnight- you were a victim. _Coerced_ became the word they liked, coerced over duress or hostage. Why else would anyone help _Michael Myers?_

The hate mail faded, replaced with tearful outcries of the injustice. Well-wishers hoping your life would get better, more than a few requests for interviews. You politely declined them all, answered only once that you simply wanted your life back.

And you had it. More or less. There were still faded bloodstains on your porch and two empty slots in your knife block. Your bed was empty, but neatly made. 

Another cramp makes you flinch and press harder into the skin between your navel and the hem of your jeans. The caffeine of your coffee was not helping, but you enjoyed the warmth too much to set it aside. You even had that back in your life- the stress of it all had pushed your cycle back and bloodless through November and December. Come the new year, it finally retaliated. You’d rather it stayed a thing of the past, but in an unfortunate way, being surrounded by blood was becoming familiar. 

But your life was not quite complete. There was only one thing missing; it would snow again tonight. 

The thought brings a warmth through your chest. You don’t know how you know, can’t begin to explain how you know. The police released you from “protective custody” a month ago, but even still they lurk at the street. They wander through the Mortons’ property in guise of looking for evidence, yet they stare to your little cabin. He hasn’t been able to get close enough yet, not without a conspicuous trail of bodies. 

It could have all been a blood bath. He could’ve killed every cop that touched you, reclaimed you and resumed your frantic run. It’s what the police expected, a mindless killing machine to appear at your door again. They even wonder if he’s dead now- why else would he stop?

You want to laugh at them, want to scold them for thinking of him as something so lowly. He’s smarter than that. The clean snow that surrounds your home tells you so. 

You finish your coffee, push down on your belly before the next wave of pain comes. The news moves on as you leave the living room, move into the kitchen. You’ve been waiting for this. 

You cleaned the slow cooker a week ago and froze some beef chuck. You pull that out and leave it in the sink to begin to thaw. The slide of a knife out of your block feels taboo, a personal little thrill as you begin to cut up vegetables. It’s wrong. You don’t stop smiling.

Though it hasn’t thawed much, you drop the beef right in the center of the ceramic pot. You scrape carrots and onions and potatoes into the slow cooker, pour in water and broth and a healthy mix of spices. It’ll be done by nightfall; if he liked your soup, he should enjoy your pot roast.

The thought warms you, bring a queasy sort of calmness. Like the forest when the wolf is near. You plug in the slow cooker and set a timer. You’ll be ready. You’re sure it’s tonight.

With that beginning to heat, you pour another cup of coffee. A pang from your belly reminds you how terrible caffeine is on your period. You curse at nothing and realize one other thing you’re still missing. You should’ve remembered! He’ll need bandages and you need medication. Especially for when he arrives. 

Your ibuprofen is tucked inside the first aid kit the police kept as evidence. You haven’t replaced that yet. You’ll have to go old-fashioned on it. An old plastic water bottle is good enough. You turn the hot tap on full blast, dipping your fingers under the water and waiting for it to heat. You fill the bottle, listen to the quickly rising pitch. When it’s bursting you screw the cap on and take your improvised heating pad with you to the living room.

Six weeks. You shake your head, press the warm plastic directly to your belly. The muscles there begin to relax and you watch as a talk show begins. Six weeks and finally it would all be over.

You start to doubt yourself when the shadows of the trees stretch long over glistening snow. Your heart hurts, anxiety rearing its ugly head. What if you were wrong? No, no. He’d be back. He came back twice before. Had he finally gotten what he wanted from you? It can’t be- surely that’s too much to invest just to have sex when he could’ve taken it so much earlier. 

You pull a pillow to you and hug it close, push the warm bottle flush with your skin. The first whiff slides in from the kitchen. He’ll be back. You press your eyes closed and hope you’re right. He liked your soup too much.

It’s cold. You blink awake- it’s dark in the living room. The TV plays on, bathing the room in too-bright, multicolor lights. You rub at your arms through the sweater- it’s _damn_ cold. Too cold. It’s never been that drafty before- 

The kitchen light is on. You stand, water bottle and pillow dropping to the floor with a _thud_ and _wump._ You step closer. Your heart soars; wet boot outlines track down the hallway and around the corner- you can hardly breathe. 

You peek into the kitchen. The rich smell of the cooking- or perhaps cooked- pot roast fills you, helps to fight off the chill that bites through your sweater. But aside from the light being on, the kitchen is empty. 

Thrill overtakes disappointment; the puddly bootprints are still there. They stop in the middle of the hallway already smaller and thinner than the larger, glistening pools towards your bedroom. He should be here, you know, but if he hadn’t woken you… You follow the bootprints backwards, down the dark hallway and into your laundry room.

Wind whistles, fresh snow pours in through your back door. Outside, a single set of tracks from the trees are already filling in in the falling snow. You grin- A single set of tacks. He’s here. You’d left it unlocked just for him, had been leaving it unlocked for _weeks._ Your smile hurts its so wide. 

You kick the snow aside and push the door closed, squint against the freezing winter wind that chaps your cheeks. It closes- and suddenly your house is all too quiet, the buffeting sounds of the storm locked out once more. 

You turn, heart beating out of your chest- but the doorway to the laundry room is still empty. The little bits of half-melted snow on the tiled floor confirm again he’s been here and yet he hides. You creep back towards the hallway. 

What if it wasn’t him?

The first touch of alarm slides over you. If you had an intruder… you carefully wrap your hand around the molding and peek one eye around the edge. You gasp, shoot upright-

A hand, big and cold wraps around your throat. He turns, slams you into the wall at the end of the hallway. Your cry doesn’t make it past his palm, your hands find his chest, dig your nails into thick fabric-

And he presses in close to you; you smell machine oil and rust and long dried blood. Low and steady breathing, made louder through the tiny nose holes. Above you empty black eyes bore into you, the plain emotionless face of a white latex mask ghostly in the low light. You sag in his grasp, fingers twitching to pull him closer. _”Michael.”_

He stares down at you, stiff and unchanging. It’s about as warm a welcome as you expected. But he’s here, he’s not out slaying your neighbors, and you can’t hide how comforting his presence is. Even as he makes your heart race, makes your hands tremble with the growing tension- you’d rather him be here. 

He leans in close, close enough for you to feel his hot breath escaping the mask, close enough for you to smell the bitter, metallic tang of old blood deep in the crevices of the mask. He’s nearly cheek-to-cheek with you, white latex fills the left side of your vision- and air whistles in through the nose holes.

He stands there- then slowly cocks his head. He switches hands smoothly, his left coming around your throat before you even realize the right hand has moved to his mask. He pushes the latex up; it’s awkward and difficult with one hand, but he lodges it over his nose and leans close again.

You whimper, close your eyes expecting the sharp imprint of his teeth- and get only cold air pulled over your shoulder, the long noise of Michael’s slow inhale. He’s _smelling_ you. The thought makes your blood rush- what does he find? He moves close, septum almost touches your skin as he sniffs again.

His head tilts the other way. Cold fingers slide under your shirt, pushing the thick sweater up. He feels your stomach, the chill permeates your skin, makes you cramp again. You flinch, flex your stomach away from him in protest- it does not go unnoticed. The mask tips to look at your face- and he rucks your shirt up. He looks at your stomach, runs his hand over your skin, searching for _something._

He doesn’t find it. He leans in close again, inhales just over your navel, makes you squirm. He pops the button to your pants and pulls them down to your knees without unzipping them. Cold air makes your skin prickle, makes you press your thighs together, but Michael’s quickly warming hands make up for it. Again, he feels over your skin with probing, curious fingers.

He tips his head again, this time releasing your throat in favor of dragging his hand down to your sternum. He pushes there, makes you short of breath and keeps you pressed to the wall. 

And Michael Myers sinks to his knees before you. You don’t have to meet his icy blue eyes to know he still has all the control. His right hand is almost delicate as it curls into the hem of your underwear and slides the thin fabric down your thighs. His mouth twitches at the sight of your bloodied pad. 

You think you know what he was smelling. You flush, feel your cheeks heat in embarrassment and wish he’d stop his exploration already.

His fingers slip between red-tinged labia for only a moment. You whimper as he brings the now bloody digits before his eyes, looks closer. The suffocating presence fills the hallway, threatens to drown you then and there. 

His left hand grabs your hip _hard;_ the right delves between your legs, brushes harshly against your over-sensitive clit and finding your entrance. You bite your lip to stifle a cry, nails scraping on the wall as he pushes just the first knuckle inside. It should feel amazing- the first time he’s been inside you at all since the motel. But you’re too sensitive, too tender-

He withdraws just as fast, makes you clench your jaw. The hand at your hip is bruising, demanding your attention- and he holds up the two bloody fingers before you. They glint in the moonlight that seeps in from the laundry room. You can’t see his eyes but you know from the painful bite of his nails in your skin that you’re in danger. Chills race down your back, adrenaline floods your veins. Something just short of rage leaks from his fingers into your thigh.

You don’t know why he’s so furious, that makes it so much worse. He looks to you and you know he expects _something_ from you. why has your blood infuriated him? You can only hope he’ll be more helpful if he knows you don’t understand. “What’s wrong?”

It’s the wrong question. He’s upright before you can blink, the bloodied hand wrapped tight around your throat. It’s clear now the grasp he’d used before was only for control, for keeping you still and where he wanted you. This time his fingers bite into the base of your skull, pressure from his palm makes your vision staticky. 

Real fear makes you twist your fingers into his coveralls, stare wide-eyed into the mask’s eyeholes. His mouth is distant, and horrifically emotionless. His voice is the same monotone, disconnected from the rage in his fingertips. A single grunting word. _“Who?”_

Your mind races. He was mad- you were bleeding- You can barely form words over the pressure on your throat. “Who… hurt me? Michael, I-“

He growls, deep and primal, and surges forward. He’s hard, grinding up on your side through the coveralls. You whimper, fight off fear and lightheadedness to chase any possibility. Rage, blood, he’s hard, sex maybe-

Oh.

It’s not rage, it’s _jealousy._

You shake your head, only making your vision swim harder. “Nobody, nobody.” You tap at his hand weakly in a plea for air. _”Michael.”_

The suffocating presence does not subside, but his thumb eases off your jugular. You blink, feel your head bobbing. “It’s my period. People with…” you pant, wish there was a better way to explain, but between the hypoxia and Michael’s limited patience you opt for fast over comprehensive. “vaginas just, bleed sometimes. It’s not… It’s not a sex thing, Michael.”

He doesn’t relax, keeps the same threatening hand over your neck. You squeeze his wrist in what you hope he understands is meant to be sincerity. “There’s nobody else, Michael. Just you. Only you.” You pause, seek the mismatch of his eyes. “Ever.”

Only then does his head begin to tilt, a long moment passing before the bloody, violent hand loosens around your neck. You sigh, lean back against the wall. The mask sweeps over you, slow and deliberate. His right hand slides down your body, over your bunched up sweater and down over your belly, brushes through the dark hair- and nudges back between your legs. 

You whimper, “It’s sensitive…”

Michael doesn’t seem to hear you. He doesn’t look up, but instead brings his middle finger back up where you can see it. It’s glossy, near black in the low light, just as it had been before. And Michael brings it close to his lips- You can hardly breathe. 

His pink tongue slips out and licks, long and slow, over his fingertip. He isn’t looking at you. This isn’t _for_ you. His head tips slowly as he considers something, thoughts hidden behind his mask. 

He grabs at the rolled-up fabric of your jeans caught on your thighs, thumbs curling into the leg holes of your underwear as well and _shoves._ You yelp as he forces them down, your skin exposed to more cold air. You shiver, go back to digging your nails into the wall because you know well enough you can’t stop him now. You even lift you leg so he can tug the denim off one leg- and he settles that thigh onto his shoulder.

The cold air dries the blood to your skin, making it prickly and stiff, pulling at the hair on your thighs. Even on his knees, Michael comes right up to your sternum. He presses the palm of his hand to your stomach, a silent command to stay still. 

You cup your hands over your mouth, hold your breath- and can’t stifle a gasp as his tongue, scaldingly hot on your cold skin, touches to your thigh. He licks at the blood drying there, slow and methodical. HIs hand fits easily under your knee, pushes your leg out farther so he can find more. His scruff scratches at your skin, tickles your inner thigh, and his tongue delves into the sensitive crease between hip and thigh. 

You squeak, instinctively try to bring your legs back together- but Michael’s hand is firm under your knee. The mask tips up in warning; with anyone else you might complain that you can’t control if he’s the one tickling you, but Michael’s already wound up. He’s rough enough when you’re compliant, you’re not sure what he’d be like if you were obviously rebellious.

But his tongue laves across your inner thigh again, saliva chilling uncomfortably on your skin, until your skin is pink with diluted blood. A ghost of teeth on your skin is the only warning you get. 

He sinks in, ripping at the delicate flesh there and you try so hard not to squirm too much. Your nails scrape on the wall behind you and you cry for mercy, “Ow! Michael, please, _fuck!”_ He ignores you, sucks hard there until you’re sure he’ll really take a bite out of you. 

He lets go with a wet pop, freezing air somehow better than the painful heat of Michael’s mouth. At least it doesn’t feel like he broke skin this time. 

With your weight on the other leg, his cheek presses fully to the warmth between your legs for him to taste the blood that’s gathered on the other thigh. You whine, rock gently against him in hopes he’d understand. But Michael is in no hurry, his patience is near unlimited- and he holds all the control. 

He cleans the blood from you with a twisted jealousy- he’d been furious at the thought of someone else making you bleed. That makes a cold shiver shake your shoulders. He wants your blood for himself, he wants to be the one to make you bleed. He has and he will again, you’re sure of it.

He gives the other leg only a nip, a glancing scrape of his teeth that still makes you stiffen, ready yourself for the piercing pain of his bite. Instead he sets your leg on his shoulder, slides his palm close to your body. The blood has stuck some of your short hairs together, they tug and part painfully as his thumb slips between your labia and pulls your pussy open. 

Being watched now while you’re bleeding is just as exposing as when he’d peered so observantly at you before. You bite your lip, expectantly watch the mask, still half-wrapped over his nose, as though it would whisper to you what he thought of your body. 

You don’t have to wait long.

His tongue swipes over your swollen, irritated clit. You scream, nearly jump out of your skin- it’s too much, the nerves of your pussy too raw to be able to focus on the pleasure behind it. You instinctively try to pull him away- wrap your fingers in long, soft hair and try to make him ease up on this torturous touch-

But all you get is the wobbling of latex, a displeased grunt, and a punitive lash of his tongue against your clit. His right hand still holds you open- so the left curls into the same soft hair you did and pulls the mask off, dropping it to the floor. 

His eyes hold you in place even as he his tongue slips deeper, towards the source of the blood. His gaze is icy, dangerous. An edge of a threat written across his scarred face- he’s already warned you to be still once. You can’t help it, the sensation is too much, too powerful on your hormonally-wrecked body; he tries to lick at your entrance and his bumps against your clit. 

You sob and reach for him again, weak pleads for mercy already spilling from your lips, “It’s too much, please, please.” Your fingers find his scalp and the short, coarse hair there. Too short to pull him off, you can only push weakly at him. Cool blue eyes narrow- and you cry out as his hand wraps around your wrists. There’s no kindness to his grasp; he pins your hands with brutal efficiency, keeps them just at the end of your sternum to keep them out of his way as he licks into you.

You writhe, fight to free your hands, try to close your legs around him, but he pays you no mind. Only brings your hips forward, away from the wall, so he can press in closer. Each time you twist, his stubble scrapes across your thighs- now so sensitive it burns. You whimper, try to still your movements if only to minimize the pain. 

The edge in his gaze softens, his tongue flattens against you and gives a slow lick across your weeping pussy. His attention returns to claiming every drop of your blood, not quite closing his eyes, but no longer focused on you. The briefest pause of his relentless attack makes the wires cross in your brain. Each touch still _hurts,_ sharp pangs of unmitigated pain- and yet the warmth of his tongue, the soft texture as he slides down to suck at the bottom edge of your labia. 

He tongues into you, just barely slipping the tip of his pointing tongue in- and his nose presses to your clit again. You whimper, close your eyes, and rock against him. The motion sets your thighs alight again. You shake and try to spread them wider- which is hard enough with one leg propped up on his shoulder, but you roll your knee out to try to give you at least a little more room. 

He pushes closer, grinds the bridge of his nose into you. You sputter and grind back- pain and pleasure warring under his touch. He slides up, wraps soft lips around your clit. Your head thrashes back and forth, shaking desperately to get away and to pull him closer. 

You look to him- and his eyes are trained only on you. The piercing blue and milky white hold you, makes your breathing stutter to a stop- until his tongue laves slow and purposeful across your clit. He draws the moan from you and the dangerous glint in his gaze returns. Your reaction has caught his interest again.

You whimper and he licks your clit again, the point of his tongue edging from bottom to top, pushing the hood of your clit back. You jerk under him, whine, his tongue already returning for another swipe, slow and steady. Your mouth falls open, breath caught in your chest as you can’t decide between a gasp and a scream. 

He continues on, lapping at your clit with merciless precision- tears burn at the corners of your eyes and you know he _wants_ it to hurt. He passes over you again, warm and repetitive, and you want to beg him to stop- it’s so good and it hurts and he’s made you suffer enough, but-

The pain has masked how good it really feels. Stimulation good or bad has been pushing you up and up. All at once pleasure is winning out and you’re right at the edge and you’re gasping, head lolling back against the wall. It’s all too raw, too acute on your senses- but the first wave of your orgasm crashes over you- and Michael does not stop his incessant torture. You shake, grinding against him without even feeling the burning rub of his whiskers across your thighs and labia. You wobble on your one leg and hope Michael would catch you if you fell. 

You don’t have to worry; his hand securing your wrists keep your torso pressed to the wall, no matter how hard you buck. And he still doesn’t stop, moving back down to lick languidly at your entrance, tasting your release. You tremble in the aftershocks, each motion of his tongue on your skin brings a new skittering pleasure until you’re whimpering with soft pleas for him to stop.

You yelp with a startled, _”Oh!”_ as he stands, your leg falling from his shoulder to sit in the crook of his arm. He stares down at you, and in the low light you can see the sinful red discoloration of his beard, the proof of his bloodlust. He lets go of your wrists, and your arms fall limply to your sides. He reaches to his crotch- and, oh. These are new coveralls, nice ones, the kind with a double zipper. He unzips no more than he needs to, withdrawing his cock and revealing nothing else.

He’s expressionless, cool and guarded even with how much he’s already made a mess of you. He presses his cock against you and oh, the heat of his mouth was nothing compared to this. He ducks down for a moment- and his three-fingered hand slips under your other leg and hefts you up. You grab at the wall on instinct- your shoulders and neck still grounded, but your lower body is supported only by your legs caught on his elbows. 

It only makes you more aware of how much control he has, how strong he is- that you can’t escape him now. You draw an inhale through your mouth and stare up at his eyes. He’s so hard to read, but you can’t imagine he’s not enjoying the frantic too-fast pace of your breathing, the hammer slam of your heart against your ribs. He adjusts- and lodges himself right up against you.

You bite your lip, push away that same feeling of overstimulation- and he fills you in one brutal thrust. It knocks you against the wall, nearly folds you body in half as he moves closer, finds just how he wants to hold you. His hands seek out your wrists again, pin you down to the wall, and like this, you can’t even move. 

He rocks into you again- and though it hurts- he’s too big and your period has you too sensitive, you moan and let your eyes fall half-closed. It feels right, feels like what you’ve been missing for so long. He fills you entirely to bursting, his pubic bone meeting your clit with each roll of his hips. 

It’s too much, but you can’t stop staring at him, can’t stop the little noises that slip from your lips unbidden- and he draws them out with such precision. A liquid heat settles inside you, your first orgasm easing the way for you to numbly bypass the too sharp pain. His cock bounces against your cervix and you know you’ll have the same, deep bellyache as before. 

With him holding your legs, you can’t even meet his thrusts, can’t get any sort of leverage at all. It feels so good, his cock fills you, even as overstimulation tinges nerves. He moves steadily in his familiar, somehow comforting just barely too hard, achingly slow thrusts. It makes you mewl, scratch your nails against the wall in frustration- you want him to move faster, to bring you that same white hot pleasure. But his pace is as unchanging as his face, cool and unaffected by your growing plight. 

Your lip trembles dangerously; hormones have already destroyed your fragile hold on you emotions, Michael’s cruelty was pushing you to the wrong edge. “Michael…” your voice wavers. 

His head tips in bland acknowledgment. 

“Please,” you know it’s useless to only beg. Everything happens by his will, petty pleadings alone won’t change his mind. Maybe something else would. You lick your lips, inhale slowly to draw up your courage. “I need you, Michael.”

Something flashes in his eyes, his fingers tighten around your wrists. He shifts you in his arms, urges your legs higher onto him, tilts your hips back further. He doesn’t say anything and other than the intensity in his eyes, he may as well have not heard you at all.

The next drive of his hips you understand. He spears into you, knocks hard against the sensitive patch inside you before sliding in deep. You gasp, clench around him in the sudden, lightning pleasure- the next thrust makes you cry out. Pleasure builds fast as Michael’s hold on you stifled the instinctive, rhythmic rocks of your hips. The heat deep within threatens to burn out all thought, all rational ideas beyond Michael Myers’ cock inside you. 

But as you focus on the liquid pleasure between your legs, the rough impacts of his thighs on yours- your breath catches. The added sensation has your head spinning, but there’s a problem. He’s tortuously slow. No, he’s a _sadist._

Another thrust has you mewling, cunt clenching desperately on his cock. Your body pleads on instinct, begs him to stay deep inside, to chase his pleasure with reckless abandon- but all you get is the parting of his lips, soft pants of exertion. Even that makes you feel closer, thinking that he’s enjoying the wet, slick heat of your body. The soft glaze to his eyes, the dusting of pink across his cheeks-

It brings you right to the edge. You’re close before you can even process it, the heat threatening to boil over. You’re moaning and waiting for one more harsh thrust to push you beyond the point of no return-

It doesn’t come. Focus returns to Michael’s eyes before you can find release, his hips stilling while you’re stuffed full of his cock. No, no- frantic desperation overtakes you. Primal need makes you writhe on him, weakly trying to fuck yourself on him.

Your left leg drops- the adrenaline rush of falling ceases all other movements. And it does not stop when Michael’s hand wraps around your throat. You manage to slip an inhale in before he presses down and constricts your breathing. He pushes in close to you, until your body is right up against the wall again. Like this, he fills your vision, reminds you just how tall he is. His intense gaze returns, staring at you with his mismatched eyes- waiting for something. 

Hypoxia sets in fast, your mind losing track of what’s happening-

Before he pushes into you again. Pleasure lights up the parts of your brain still functioning. Your eyes roll, but he picks up his pace. Your eyes threaten to close, the darkness collecting in your vision with each passing moment. But his fingers loosen, readjusting so he can deny you even unconsciousness.

Without his arm to support it, your left leg dangles uselessly, waving in time with Michael’s powerful thrusts. With newfound freedom your left hand grabs at his arm- not to beg for air, but only for stability, to pull him closer. Just to feel the fabric of his coveralls under your fingers. 

You blink, try to focus- and realize you’re drooling over your chin. A weak moan slips past his fingers, and he’s rutting into you. He grinds against your clit, fills you, rubs deep inside- over and over until it’s all you can think about. His chokehold steals all thought, everything beyond the torture he provides and pleasure that boils over.

It comes in waves, weak and distant with your oxygen-addled brain struggling to keep up between savoring the pleasure and processing the sharp snaps of Michael’s hips. You clench hard around him, vision going double and blurring. You twitch, fingers digging into thick fabric, left leg kicking against his calf. Each motion inside you drags it out, keeps you suspended somewhere outside yourself. 

Through the haze you feel hot breath puffing on your cheek and hard grind of his hips. His hand tightens and your ears ring. Low, guttural grunting fills your head, warmth spilling between your legs. 

His grasp loosens. Awareness returns with low, shallow gasps. You’re dead weight in his arms, every limb lax and useless, but he holds you aloft, keeps you pressed close to him. He stands over you, breathing slow and even through his parted, chapped lips. The same deceptive peacefulness has descended over his face; his eyes are closed softly, not pinched or pressed- the usual hard edge to his countenance is long forgotten in post-orgasmic bliss. Your free arm, because he still holds the other to the wall, wobbles, but you manage to reach the back of his neck, feel the short hair curl over your fingers. 

His lids lift, dark eyelashes fluttering. He looks to you, and you cannot name what lingers behind the soft blue of his iris, but it settles deep behind your ribcage. You grin and know you must look half-crazed, loopy and drugged out and everything else you could call someone who smiles serenely at a serial killer. It doesn’t matter; a laugh burbles up through your chest, soft and airy, and tears prick at your eyes because he’s back and he’s real and oh my god your thighs hurt _so much-_

He tilts his head, confused by your strange display of mixed emotions- laughing and crying and wincing all at once. You shake your head, dismiss it all. “I missed you.” 

His thumb rubs over your irritated throat, you think that’s as gentle as he can be. 

He pulls out- you whine at the burning drag on your walls, the whisker burn across your labia and thighs. And wince at the soft, wet dripping noise from the floor. Michael lowers you and steps away- leaves you braced against the wall, struggling not to slide down to the floor. Something slides down your inner thigh and it stings. 

Michael’s gaze stays on you for a long moment, watching the heaving of your chest, the absolute mess he’s made between your legs. He looks lower- to his cock. He’s softening already, but his head tips as he looks- and takes it in hand. He doesn’t stroke, but glides a finger over the shaft. You blink, squint, and look closer-

It’s covered in blood and cum. Long red streaks mixing into a milky pink mess of your mutual pleasure. You blanch, remember what had drawn Michael into fucking you in the first place. With what he’s done to your thighs, pads will be excruciating. You sigh, “We both need a bath now.” 

His eyes lift and meet yours. Even now he makes you shiver with his intensity. The empty gaze has returned and you mourn for the strange, foreign look that surfaces from time to time. You know it’ll return. But now, Michael’s dopamine and oxytocin slurry has subsided back to his regular difficult self- and you watch, disgusted but not surprised, as he tucks his cock away into the coveralls and rezips himself. 

And yet, it almost makes you break out into laughter again. He doesn’t even wipe his hands. He’s disgusting and you’ll probably fuck him again before the night is out. 

“Okay, give me a minute then. There’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry.” You lean on the wall for support and navigate around him back to your room. For now, you leave your pants and underwear in the hallway- you’ll have to clean up later anyway. Footsteps behind you tell you he’s following you. Some things haven’t changed.

You retrieve underwear and a set of pajamas, keeping your legs pressed tight to hopefully minimize any drips. He follows you to the bathroom and stands in the doorway just to watch you clean up. It should be so much more embarrassing, but you’ve held his dick while he peed. 

You pee, ignore the tiny smug upturn of his lips that does not disappear when you wipe and wince. In the stark bathroom light you can see the pink tinge that covers your vulva and thighs, along with the red outline of his teeth on your left leg. Honestly, it could be worse. From the first beginnings of a yellow-green shadow over your wrist, it’ll probably all darken more. Your throat throbs in reminder. 

You’ll have to wear more scarves. You think that’ll be just fine.

Michael watches, face blank and inaccessible, as you press a pad into fresh underwear and carefully pull it up. It hurts, but you realize something as your skin complains: you’re not cramping anymore. There’s a dull ache behind your belly button where Michael’s dick has tried to pry you open further, but the rolling, sharp pains that would make you double over have ceased. 

You change into the pajamas and drop your shirt- the only thing remaining of your earlier outfit- into the laundry hamper. 

He follows you to the kitchen- and Michael’s stomach growls. His brows draw together in sharp disapproval of his own body’s noises and you struggle to keep your smile under control. At least he liked the smell. You retrieve two bowls, Michael watches from the hallway as you ladle out the pot roast- making sure to give Michael some vegetables in a vain hope he’ll eat some. 

You offer him his bowl- and in the kitchen light you blush at his still dirty hands and the blood caked into his white stubble. Of course. If he can kill without being disgusted at the gore, this probably _was_ clean to him. You shake your head and move towards the living room.

It’s still dark, illuminated only by the television playing an evening police drama. You step towards your normal chair in the corner, only to find Michael’s hand at your side, pulling you with him. You blink up at him in the darkness, but his hand falls away when you stand in front of the couch. He sits and immediately begins devouring messy spoonfuls.

You sit next to him for the first time, feeling the casual touch of your leg against his, the warmth that radiates off him now that he’s out of the snow. You watch him as he stares at the screen, apparently taken with whatever show was playing- and you wonder if this is what he feels like. Watching, wondering what goes on in other peoples’ heads. 

Your bowl sits warm in your hands, the thick, hearty smell drifting to you and making your mouth water. You smile at him and lay your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes and enjoying the touch for a moment. The motion of his arm as he eats, the soft noises of his breathing, nearly drowned out by the television. 

With your curtains drawn, nobody will know he’s here. Fresh snow will cover his tracks. Nobody will come looking for him. You sigh, open your eyes again- and find the mixed blue and white looking down at you. You press closer, rub your cheek over the thick, rough material of his coveralls, feel the shape of his arm beneath. Three words slip from your lips.

The strange softness returns to his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! Thank you Harlequince for beta'ing, but also you're welcome because this is all your fault.
> 
> There will be one more real follow up that is currently being written (no promises for next Tuesday because this sucker is going to be _long)_ so I'll be marking this as a series.

**Author's Note:**

> My [Tumblr](https://satans-codpiece.tumblr.com) | [ Writing-Only Tumblr](https://korpuskat.tumblr.com)


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